Into the Fire
by S. Faith
Summary: Sometimes running away to forget a problem sends you headlong into another. AU: What if Mark was older than Bridget by more than just a few years? Book universe. 12 parts in all.
1. Chapter 1

**Into the Fire**  
1 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,402 in total, ~5,680 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary: Sometimes running away to forget a problem sends you headlong into another.  
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. There is very little chance that they ever will.  
Notes: This story, set in book universe, operates under the premise that the age difference between Bridget and Mark is much greater than four years. The books never really say what the difference is. There's a reference to Bridget being at least thirty… but what about Mark? It's entire plausible that he could be at least forty.  
That said, this is still a 'What if?', alternate universe scenario.  
The book never mentions anything about when The Incident (with Daniel and wife) happens, either—only that they'd been married one / two weeks when it happened—but for the sake of not going too crazy (and also to allow Mark to sulk on New Year's Day) I'm going to keep it at Christmastime. Also, I can't help but imagine the interiors of certain locations looking as they do in the films. Let's just assume the set designers knew what they were doing.  
Notes will appear as a separate post after the final part's posted.

* * *

**Chapter 1.**

Mark Darcy wished he hadn't listened to his mother. Spending the anniversary of his marriage's implosion in the company of two people who were happily married had not perhaps been the best idea. Then again, he wished he had listened to her when she cautioned him not to marry his ex-wife in the first place.

And now it was New Year's Day. He had practically been dragged to the party against his will; his mother had insisted he not spend the day on his own, which was precisely what he'd wanted most to do. She, however, would have none of it, and so here he was amidst the cheery, optimistic crowd celebrating the birth of another year. He felt surly, defensive, resentful… and on his own all the same.

"Here you are," came a man's voice from close to his side.

He turned, saw a vaguely familiar, genial-looking man standing there with a glass of red wine in his hand.

"Mark, is it?" the man went on to say. "Malcolm and Elaine's boy?"

"Yes," he said curtly. The man's name was eluding Mark, until it came to him in a flash: Colin Jones.

"You'll need this," Colin said, holding out the glass of wine. Confidentially, he added, "I've found the best way to survive these awful to-dos is to get plastered as quickly as possible."

The corner of Mark's mouth twitched in a reluctant smile as he accepted the drink. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't mention it," he said, bringing a tumbler of scotch up to his own lips. "Seems only right to share my survival skills with the next generation."

Mark drank from the glass. The wine was a very good vintage. "It's much appreciated."

"Think nothing of it," he said in that same self-deprecating tone. "There's more in the kitchen when you need it. Plenty of it, too, so help yourself."

"I will."

"You're looking well, Mark," he said, apparently oblivious to Mark's unpleasant state. "A bit drawn, but the holidays can wear a body down."

"Yes," he said with resignation, waiting for the inevitable divorce questions.

"I hear you've been hard at work, human rights campaigns, I don't know," he said with a chuckle, clearly tipsy and taking another drink. "Were you part of that big case I read about in the papers? The young woman from Turkey?"

"Yes, yes," Mark said, somewhat stunned that the expected subject did not materialise. "In fact I intend on finishing up that case in court this week—"

At that Mark was off like a shot, explaining in as much detail as he legally could the most recent court case he was handling. For his part, Colin seemed genuinely interested, interrupting Mark only to ask him if he wanted more wine, then getting it for him; to Mark's surprise, he had managed to empty the entire thing.

"Fascinating stuff," Colin said with a hearty laugh, once Mark had covered not only that case but another previous along similar lines. "It was good of you to explain, even if it is a holiday ostensibly, and even if it's all over my head, anyway. I'm just glad we can count on the likes of you to fight those fights, as it were." He emptied his glass. "Well, cheerio, Mark. A pleasure to talk to someone who truly enjoys his work." He winked. "Enjoy the wine."

As Colin wandered away, Mark realised how refreshing it was not to have to talk about _her_. He drank from his glass until it was empty once more, then wandered towards the kitchen to partake of another. He took a long sip, felt the wine curl more warmth down into his soul.

"Mark."

It was the concerned voice of his own mother.

"Did you have some curry?" she asked, bearing a plate filled with bright yellow food.

"I'm not hungry," he replied.

"That's the third glass of wine you've had," she said. "You should eat something." She held the plate insistently up to him.

He took it reluctantly, a bit peeved that she'd been counting, but knowing he could ultimately brook no argument against her. "Thank you," he said gruffly.

With the stem of his wine glass balanced carefully between his thumb and his plate, he dug the fork into a cube of potato and a strip of turkey and swept it through the curry sauce before raising it to his mouth. It was not the best curry he'd had in his life, but it did serve to prove to him that he was in fact quite hungry after all. Once he began eating he barely stopped for air. His mother gave him a smile—affectionate yet smug—before wandering away to find his father.

"Stuffed olive? Silver skin onion?"

Just as he finished the last of his plate of food, he turned to see a young woman with shoulder-sweeping blonde hair standing there offering a tray of hors d'oeuvres, miniature foods of seemingly infinite variety. She wore a dark grey jumper, a black skirt that barely came to mid-thigh, black stockings and little black boots.

"Excuse me?" he barked.

"Have one," she said wearily. "If my mother and Una Alconbury are going to make me parade around with plates of finger foods, you should at least have the decency to take something."

He blinked at her impertinence. "Excuse me?" he asked again.

She rolled her eyes then walked away.

A little surprised by the encounter, he decided to deposit his dirty plate in the kitchen and top up his wine. At least he would not have to worry about driving.

When he emerged from the kitchen, it was right into the path of Una Alconbury and Pamela Jones. They both looked grave. "Mark," said Una, reaching for and taking his upper arm. "I know it's a hard time for you, what with everything that happened in the last year, but I am so glad that you came today."

Pamela Jones nodded.

He was so, _so_ tired of hearing how sorry people were for him. How awful they felt for him. How mortified they were for him on his behalf. How much it must have hurt him for his wife to sleep with his best friend only two weeks after their wedding. He also knew the things they thought but never said: how could he not have known, or seen the signs? How could he have let it happen? How could he ever have married her in the first place? Worst of all, wasn't he able to satisfy a woman for more than a couple of weeks?

He looked down and said what he always said. "Thank you."

"It's very nice to see you, Mark," chimed in Pamela.

He looked at the two of them, nodding in unison, and smiled stiffly. "I appreciate it."

"Mum!"

He recognised the exasperated voice as the same girl who'd tried to force olives, onions and other manner of appetisers on him. He turned to her just as Pam did.

"How much longer are we staying?" the girl asked, clearly trying to be polite in front of the hostess, but also clearly agitating to leave. "I'd really like to make that ten-thirty train."

"Bridget, please," said Pamela. "London isn't going anywhere." She turned to Mark. "Mark. Have you met my daughter?"

"We spoke briefly earlier," he said curtly, looking at her. She pursed her lips.

"This is Bridget," said Pamela. "She's in uni, home for the break. You probably saw her last when she was a baby, running around in her nappies and yanking on your poor dog's tail. And Bridget, this is Mark. He's a barrister."

Her eyebrows raised. "I never would have guessed that," she said, "given our conversation before."

"Oh, yes," said Mark with a smirk; he might not have said anything if she hadn't chosen to subtly needle him. "I remember you and your nappies quite well. As I recall you preferred _not_ to wear them… and that poor dog never was quite the same after having his tail chomped repeatedly by you."

As Pamela tittered in her amusement, he saw a grimace pass over Bridget's face before she quelled it; she could not so easily quell the blush that stained her cheeks. She set her jaw firmly. "I'm going to find Dad. _Excuse me_." She looked pointedly at Mark before she dashed away. He delighted in this small victory, petty as it was, even if it was only against a university-aged girl.

"Don't mind her," said Pamela. "She's anxious to get down to London to spend time with her girlfriends for the rest of her break. So how have you been, Mark?" Her voice turned saccharinely sweet and laden with concern, which in his experience was really just an implied code for wanting more juicy detail about what exactly had happened. "Holding together? Hope being up here amongst your family and friends has helped a little."

"I've kept myself busy," he said. "I'll be heading back to London this evening. I can't spare any more time in Grafton Underwood."

"Oh," she said, smiling again; it looked a little forced. He thought for just a moment that he preferred sparring with her daughter more than the smothering kindness Pam offered. Her eyes glanced intently to his wine glass. "Well. Hope you're going to switch to soda water soon. Can't have you swerving all over the road."

"I have a car to take me," he said. "It'll be here at ten."

"Oh," she said. Pamela glanced away; he followed her gaze to where her daughter was speaking in a rather animated manner with Colin Jones. "I'd better go shore up his reserve," she said. "There's no reason why we should leave already just so she can make the last train to London. Colin hates when she travels this late at night on her own. We both do. I mean, she's not a child anymore, but parents never stop worrying."

"On her own?" he said. That put her arriving into London some time in the wee hours, which was certainly risky for a woman of any age. "Ridiculous. I'll come over there with you."

She smiled, pleased to have him on her side.

Upon approaching the father and daughter, both of them stopped speaking to look up. "Mr Jones, sir, I understand your daughter wishes to take the train into London tonight."

"Yes," he said with exasperation, his face ruddy with heightened temperament and so unlike the jovial man he'd been speaking to earlier, "and I won't have it. She can just go in the morning." Bridget looked indignant.

"I'd like to offer another solution," he said, suddenly inspired. "I have a car coming in about an hour. Your daughter could ride back to town with me." He figured a couple of hours in the company of a pouting, undeserving, petulant brat was a small price to pay to ease the mind of a fine man like Colin Jones.

"No," Bridget said immediately. "I'm twenty and am perfectly capable of taking the train."

"Can you do that?" asked Pam. "Isn't that a company car?"

"Yes it is, and yes I can," Mark said, turning his gaze momentarily to Bridget. "I would be more than willing to see to her safety."

Colin smiled broadly, calming immediately. It had worked. "I think that's a marvellous idea. Bridget, do you have your things ready?"

"They're in the boot of your car," she grumbled, glaring at Mark.

"That is very kind of you, Mark," said Pam. She nudged her daughter gently and said in a loud whisper, "Thank him, Bridget."

"Thank you," she said through clenched teeth. "You _really_ shouldn't have bothered."

At a few minutes past ten, Mark's mobile began to ring. He palmed the phone and answered it.

"Mr Darcy, your car has arrived."

"Thank you."

He raised his eyes and scanned the room for his passenger; he did not see her. He did find her mother, who scanned the room as well in an equally futile manner. "I'm not sure," said Pamela.

"I saw her head out back for some air," said Geoffrey Alconbury with a disturbing glint in his eye.

Mark went through the house and through the kitchen. Just outside on the rear porch, through the window he spied her drinking a glass a wine, a plume of white smoke rising up from a cigarette just out of view. He walked over to the window and rapped on it, visibly startling her. She furrowed her brow and looked at him with irritation. He crooked a finger at her to indicate it was time to go. She rolled her eyes and drank down the remains of her wine; the smoke disappeared as she stomped out the cigarette. She then came inside.

She said her goodbyes to her mother and to the Alconburys; her father came out to the car to unlock the boot to get her bag.

"Thanks again, Mark," said Colin effusively, shaking Mark's hand. "And Bridget, please be nice to Mark. He's doing you a big favour."

"I will," she said in a sincere yet slightly long-suffering tone, giving him a tender hug; judging from this and the evident fondness in her voice, Mark reasoned she was something of a daddy's girl. He thought it was sweet. "Bye, Dad."

"Bye, love," he said, pecking a kiss goodbye on her cheek.

They walked to his car. "Make yourself comfortable," he said as the driver opened the door. "We'll just need to make a quick stop to get my things."

"Okay," she said, climbing in behind the driver. He took the seat beside her. He bade the driver stop by his parents' house, where his own bag and attaché awaited pickup.

"I have to read a little for work," he said, settling in, pulling a stack of papers to review for court the next day; his alcohol buzz was waning and he rediscovered the will to concentrate. Approximately five minutes into the ride he was distracted from his work by the muffled, tinny sound of music. He looked up and at Bridget. She was bobbing her head to the music coming from her headphones, which were evidently of rather poor quality.

"Bridget," he said sternly. She did not respond. "Bridget!" he repeated, patting her on the forearm.

She pulled the headphones up. The music blared even louder. "What?" she asked crossly.

"Will you please turn that down? I really need to work."

"Sorry." She turned it down, but he could still hear it. "That better?"

"No."

"I won't be able to hear it at all."

"Then put it away." He looked back down to his paper. "Silence is golden," he said.

"Silence is boring," she muttered, but did as told.

Mark was able to get back into his work with only the sound of the tyres on the asphalt, at least until a frequent popping sound irritated him out of his reading. He looked up again to see Bridget had taken to reading… and saw a bubble bursting before she pulled the gum back into her mouth.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Reading," she answered, not looking up.

"I can see that," he said wryly. "No. I mean, is it too much to ask that you don't pop bubbles?"

"What? Oh. Sorry." She returned to her book, mumbling something under her breath that he was sure was unkind. She was, however, still chomping away on the gum.

"Bridget," he said sharply.

"What now?" she asked.

"I feel like I'm in the presence of a ruminant animal."

She furrowed her brows.

"The chewing."

She rolled her eyes again, then spat out the gum into the discarded wrapper. "It was stale, anyway."

"Thank you."

She exhaled heavily as she shifted in the car seat.

"Is something wrong?"

She turned to glare at him. "I told you I could have taken the train. At least on the train I could, you know, make reasonable noise."

"London at night is a dangerous place for a young woman."

"I can take care of myself."

He sincerely doubted that, and his expression surely conveyed that, judging from her response:

"Whatever." She lowered her eyes then began reading again.

Mark was able to dive into his paperwork again without further disturbance, easily reading as the miles slipped away beneath him, at least until he felt a pressure against his shoulder. He glanced to his side and saw that she'd fallen asleep, book in her lap, and had due to the movement of the car shifted against him.

Gently he pushed against her arm with his elbow. She murmured but did not wake; more importantly, she did not budge. With a resigned sigh he realised that since there was not much more to the drive and he had read through the file enough times, he could afford to sit still and not disturb her. Glancing down at her in her peaceful repose he reflected that she was actually rather pretty, but how deceptively angelic her features were given what he had seen of her behaviour at the party. _Pity there's no Eton equivalent for girls_, he thought with amusement. _She could have done with a bit more discipline._ He wondered only then for the first time if her zeal in reaching London had something to do with a boyfriend rather than female friends as Pam had indicated.

As they hit the outskirts of London and the density of streetlights increased, the ambient light outside of the vehicle began to rise and the university student sitting at his side roused awake. "Oh," she said in surprise, looking up at him with some embarrassment. "It was so quiet and the ride so bloody smooth…"

"It's all right," he said coolly. "I was finished reading. So, where do you need to be dropped?"

She sat up straight, meeting his eye. "There's a coffee shop just off of Bond Street."

"Meeting someone there?" he asked.

"My friend lives nearby. I can get something to eat and get myself the rest of the way." She smiled. "I've bothered you enough, Mr Darcy."

The smile, the cloying way she said it, told Mark that she was trying to keep something from him; sort of placating and overly sweet.

"It's no bother, Bridget. I'd feel better taking you directly to your friend's house. What's the address?" he asked, his voice firm, his gaze challenging.

She blinked first. She looked away and sighed, then reluctantly rattled off her friend's address.

"Did you catch that?" Mark said to the driver.

"Yes, sir."

Her friend lived decidedly not within walking distance of the previously mentioned coffee shop, and indeed in one of the parts of town he would least recommend women to walk though alone even by day, particularly not the way she was dressed. "Thanks," she muttered as the car came to a halt; she did not sound all that grateful. The driver popped the boot open as she pushed the door open for herself.

"You're welcome," he replied.

She jogged over to the door of the building bearing the number she'd quoted. He watched her press a button, speak into an intercom; moments later the door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man with perfectly coiffed dark hair and a bright smile as he gave her a big hug then pulled her into the building. Mark smirked, his suspicions evidently confirmed.

"She appears to have made it in safely," said the driver.

"Yes, yes. We can go now," said Mark.

Within short order he was deposited in front of his own house. He wasted little time washing up and retiring to bed for the night. The morning alarm would sound far too soon for his liking, and coffee would only go so far.

As preoccupied as his waking mind had been with thoughts of deflecting discussion of his ex-wife and divorce, once in the quiet and dark of his bedroom, he would have thought it yearning for the respite of slumber. That was not to be the case. He turned over in his mind all of the things that had hurt him the most: the devastation to his self-esteem, the damage to his ego, the raising of his defensive walls to disallow nearly everyone access to those vulnerable parts of him again.

He would have to hope the coffee could carry him.

…

Work was not the worst part of his day the next day, nor the next, nor the one after that. It was the unspoken end of the 'mourning period'; now that a year had passed since the breakup, so everyone, especially the women, seemed to feel entitled to ask him if he was seeing someone, for details of that horrible Christmas night and the divorce that followed. He did not understand why everyone thought it their right to poke into his private business. It was not as if he had ever encouraged such audacity before; he did not know how much more of it he was going to be able to take.

A call from an old acquaintance would change things for him.

Mark swept the phone up into his hand. "Mark Darcy."

After a beat of silence, he heard a tentative, "Mark?"

He drew his brows together. "Yes?"

The man's voice chuckled in relief. "Crikey, I thought it was a recording," he said. "Mark, it's Patrick. Long time, no hear."

Mark rifled through his mental rolodex to recall the Patricks he knew; there was only one he didn't talk to on a regular basis, an old school mate from Eton. "Baldwin?" he asked.

"Sharp as ever, you are," said Patrick. "You don't miss a thing."

Mark laughed, eminently grateful to hear a friendly voice. "It's been a while," said Mark. "How have you been?"

"I've been very well," Patrick said in response. "Don't remember if I've spoken to you since I went to Wales."

"Wales?"

"I guess not," Patrick chuckled. "I accepted a teaching position a few years ago with the English department at the university in Bangor. It's lovely up here. And it's part of the reason why I called, not that I don't like chatting for the sake of chatting."

"Oh?" asked Mark, immediately intrigued.

"Yes," said Patrick. "How would you feel about taking on a visiting lecturer position?"

He was slightly taken aback. He had never thought about teaching before. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"Well, we have a course in the history of human rights, and the woman who usually teaches it is taking maternity leave. Of course I thought of you."

Mark was rendered speechless.

"It's only for a semester, starting at the end of the month. There's very little prep for you to actually do."

"I've never lectured before." He could hear Patrick laughing. "I mean to students."

"How will that be any different than making a case in court?"

Mark did not quite know what to say… but he had to admit it was appealing. The change of pace would be most welcome.

"I won't lie to you: some of the students will make you crazy, if they're anything like mine," Patrick went on to explain. "Of course, they could drive a Buddhist monk to madness…."

Mark smiled then laughed a little.

"What do you say?"

He looked around his house, which suddenly seemed very cold and empty. Perhaps a term in the north would do him a world of good. It would not be so difficult to find someone to take over his court cases; his current workload wasn't so large that it would be insurmountable.

It was perhaps a little too spontaneous of him to give an answer without giving it more thought, but he did so anyway: "Yes. I'm very interested, indeed."

"Oh, fantastic," said Patrick. "I'll speak to the department head. I can't imagine he'll be unreceptive to the idea."

Patrick ended up being correct. Within three days he had a packet that had been sent overnight from Bangor formally offering him the position for Semester 2. Within a week, he had handed over all open cases to his partners in chambers. Within two, he had secured a place to live in Bangor, a small rental house.

Within three weeks, he was making the long drive north.

…

He did not realise quite what a stir his arrival was causing on the Bangor campus. He met his friend for lunch the day after getting there. Patrick had changed very little since the time he had seen the man last, and it was not hard at all to recognise him. Same short brown hair, same neat attire. The only significant difference was the glasses shading his light brown eyes.

"Very scholarly," commented Mark with a grin as they met at the pub.

"'Scholarly' had nothing to do with it," confessed Patrick. "Old age."

"Bah," said Mark. "You're my age."

"I rest my case," joked Patrick.

They ordered the fish and chips and a couple of ales, and after a little small talk regarding the drive and settling in at his rental place, Patrick said, "Better clear your diary for Saturday."

"Why?"

"The department's having a little soiree."

He blinked in his disbelief. "What? Why?"

"For you. To welcome you. Nothing big, just a little wine and cheese mixer. They're just really excited to have a barrister of your calibre here."

"It's not really necessary," he said.

"I knew you'd say that," Patrick said, "so I told them to keep it low-key."

It turned out to be not as low-key as Patrick had intimated. A daytime affair, it was hosted at the department head's home, which was packed with (as he was to learn later) not only faculty from his new department, but from others as well. Mark tried to be as gracious and sociable as possible, smiling politely and engaging in the same conversation over and over again, but the truth was that it was all very wearing for him.

He bowed out after just an hour and a half, claiming he had preparations to make for class on Monday, but the truth was he just wanted to drive around the area, see the sights, enjoy the natural beauty of the area, despite the blanket of snow.

He drove his car out towards Penrhyn Park, then looped around towards the pier. He parked the car, strode out towards the sea, and though he was shivering a little, the view was breathtaking; the steel grey water, the snow-heavy clouds in the sky, the still of the air, and no sound but the lapping at the water's edge and the occasional cry of a seabird. He inhaled deeply then released it, watching the fog of his warm breath trail up and disappear into the sky.

He already loved the peace of this place; that peace, however, was not to last long.

…

The class he was to teach had two tracks: Monday-Wednesday, and Tuesday-Thursday. Both tracks were scheduled for eight a.m. He knew that was not a favoured time for class and he suspected it would be an uphill battle to keep their attention engaged.

His first class was, to his surprise, well-attended. Perhaps curiosity for the new professor had won out over the fact that it was the first thing in the morning on the first day of classes. He cleared his throat, then began to speak.

"Good morning, and welcome to History of Human Rights Law," he said, his eyes scanning over the assembled students in the small lecture hall. He estimated twenty students at most, the majority of them male. "My name is Mark Darcy. I work out of London and specialise in asylum cases, and I'll be your professor this semester." He paused. "In order to understand today's current struggle for human rights, it's imperative to understand the roots of—"

At that moment the classroom door swung open and a bowed figure came into the room, bundled up in hat and scarf to ward off the cold. "I am _so_ sorry I'm late," she said, tearing off her hat and looking up towards her instructor. Her jaw dropped open; Mark had to admit it took conscious effort for his own not to do the same.

It was Bridget Jones. She looked a bit like a deer in the headlights, so he felt the need to prompt her.

"We've only just started," he said coolly. "Please take a seat."

"Yes, sorry," she said again, finding a set, slinging her bag to the ground and peeling off her coat and scarf. "Won't happen again."

He pursed his lips and began his lecture anew.

At the end of the hour and a half, he was pleased to see that the majority of the students were not glassy-eyed and slack-jawed with boredom; in fact, he had managed to rouse a relatively spirited debate during the course of the class. At the conclusion, he packed up his briefcase, preparing to leave, when he heard a familiar voice ask quietly:

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

He kept his features neutral as he turned to look at her. "I might ask the same of you."

"I go to uni here," she said defiantly, "and have for the last two and a half years."

"I took a job here for the semester, as was my right to do," he said, "and as I am your professor, I would ask that you show a little respect."

She said nothing further.

Raising his voice, he said to the retreating class, "By the way, be sure to do the assigned reading, as you will be quizzed on it."

He saw her clench her jaw. "You did that because of me."

"I did not," he said, though he was not sure that was entirely true. "If you're late again, I'll dock points from your grade." He looked down again, putting the rest of his papers away. "If there's something else you want to discuss, please see me during the office hours listed in the syllabus."

"Syllabus?"

He reached into the bag and pulled one of the class outlines out for her. "Syllabus," he said, meeting her gaze again.

With a rebellious glare, she snatched it from his hand and stalked away.

The entire conversation left him feeling both amused and irritated in equal parts. If she thought he would go easy on her or tolerate her impertinent manners because they were already acquainted as 'family friends', she was in for a big surprise.

He went to his office, opened the book from which he had assigned the reading, and went to work on drafting a quiz.

…

The second track of classes turned out to be much the same as the first, and for the sake of fairness advised the class they too would have a quiz during the next class. He found he quite liked the town, though a small part of him missed the sights and sounds of London… and even the smells, to an extent: Indian curries, chip oil frying, even, he thought with amusement, the pervasive smell of auto exhaust.

On Wednesday he arrived to the classroom early with his stack of printed quizzes ready to hand out. He perched on the edge of the desk at the front of the room and watched as the students filed in one by one until the top of the hour struck.

One student was conspicuously absent.

"Good morning," Mark said as he stood upright, picking up the test papers. "Before we begin the lecture, you have fifteen minutes to complete this quiz. Please keep it face down until I say." He began handing the papers out until they were all distributed. Well, almost all.

"All right," Mark said, returning to his desk. "Please begin."

About five minutes into the test, as expected, Bridget came in, her mouth open as if to apologise again. He held up his hand to halt her, then gestured she come to the desk.

"Yes?" she asked, standing there with her coat, scarf, hat and backpack.

"You have until quarter past to complete this quiz. I'd suggest you begin at once."

"But it's almost ten past—"

"I told you not to be late," he interrupted sharply.

Without another word she took the quiz from his desk, dumped her bag loudly near the chair she then chose. As she took off her outerwear, more slowly than was prudent considering the time constraint, she stared at him challengingly the entire time before sitting and getting to work on the quiz. Alternately scribbling furiously with or biting thoughtfully on her pen for the duration of quiz time—at least every time his eyes travelled in her direction—she did not stop until mere seconds before he called time, at which she looked up and smirked impishly.

"All right," he said, rising to his feet. "Pens down, papers forward to me, that's it, thank you." He collected them, squared the edges, then put them into his attaché to grade later. "On to today's subject."

The class was a little more subdued than the previous Monday, though at least no one actually fell to sleep. He found his gaze returning to Bridget again and again; she seemed distracted, though whenever he called on her she was correct in answering. She had, at least, done the reading.

As the class wound down, he reminded them all of the reading that was due for the following Monday, and added, "I'd like you all to think about what we've discussed last class and this, and compose an essay comparing one of the ancient systems of law we talked about today to our modern system." At the muted groans, he added, "I'm not talking dissertation, here. One typed page at most. I think you'll all do just fine, given your participation in class. Thank you."

One by one the students packed up their knapsacks and left the room. Bridget was the last to leave. As she slung her bag over her shoulder she smiled smugly at Mark. "Until Monday, Professor Darcy."


	2. Chapter 2

**Into the Fire**  
2 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,402 in total, 5,690 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.  
By the way, any mistakes are entirely my own, up and including erroneous interpretation of the semester system for university as well as the typical length of university tenure for an undergraduate, typos and grammatical errors. Thanks to my dear M. for being my real-time beta and plotbunny breeder… and all around awesome friend.

* * *

**Chapter 2.**

The rest of the week went by fairly uneventfully. He graded the quizzes; when he got to Bridget's, he found that even despite the time deficit, her answers were thoughtful, detailed and completely correct. At the bottom of the quiz page, she had drawn a smiley-face. It made him chuckle.

Patrick invited him out for supper on Friday night, which he accepted. They went to the same pub at which they'd had lunch; it seemed to be the place where faculty congregated on their off-hours.

"Survived your first week, I see," quipped Patrick, raising a glass of ale to his lips.

"Indeed. They're a decent, eager group of students though."

"That's good."

"It's the oddest coincidence, though," said Mark. "One of my students is the twenty-year-old daughter of my parents' friends."

"That is an odd coincidence," said Patrick. "And you didn't know she went here for law?"

"Nope," he said.

Their conversation moved on to other things. Mark admitted that he did not quite know what to do with so much free time; without a doubt he was busy, but compared to his life in London he was practically twiddling his thumbs.

"I've got a stack of quarterlies that I've fallen behind on reading," he said. "Now I can take the time to review them. Well. Once I can get someone back home to mail them to me."

Patrick grinned. "Wait until the semester really kicks into gear. You won't have time to scratch your ear." At Mark's laugh, he added, "I'm not joking."

…

Bridget continued to be late to class—not by more than a few minutes, but it was every single session—though the quality of her work and the way in which she was engaged in class made him inclined to overlook the consistent tardiness. He wished he'd known sooner that she was in the law course; not that he could have done anything about it, but he might have offered some kind of educational assistance, being that she was a friend of the family.

He noticed that compared to her classmates, she seemed to have a rather idealistic perspective on things, one that her classmates had picked up on and for which they teased her on occasion; it was nothing malicious, but it made him ponder what the difference was that set her apart. It could not solely be the fact that she was a woman; certainly there were other women in the class who did not espouse such viewpoints. She was also very witty and prone to joking, something else that set her apart; the others were, for the most part, very serious and eager to impress him.

The first exam was comprised of a few multiple choice questions and three short essays. She did well on it, even though she seemed to have a fundamental lack of understanding for modern legal processes. He wrote in the margin of her exam: 'I would revise re: procedure if I were you.'

Upon returning the corrected exam papers he noticed her furrowing her brow as her eyes scanned over the page. In discussing the test results, he said, "All in all I'm very pleased with your grades. Does anyone have any questions?"

Bridget looked up to him, and raised her hand. "Yes?"

"What does this mean, what you wrote about revising on procedure?"

He heard subdued chuckling from her classmates.

"We can discuss that after class," he said, not wanting to put her on the spot. "I meant questions about the subject matter. Anyone?"

"But which procedure?" she persisted.

He stared at her. How could she be so uncomprehending? "_Legal_ procedure, Bridget," he said. "This is, ultimately, a legal course, and you, a law student. You will have a difficult time practising law in the real world if you don't have procedure mastered."

Her eyebrows shot up; a smile spread across her face. "I won't be."

"Won't be what?"

"Practising law in the real world," she said. "I don't want to bloody die of boredom." As soon as she said it her skin tinted pink.

Before she could say anything more, he asked, "Then why on earth are you in the law course?"

"I'm not," she said slowly with an impish smile. "I'm in the English BA course, with creative writing. I just thought this was an interesting subject."

He blinked a few times, then said as coolly as he could manage, "Well, I guess you can probably disregard that note." He turned, saw another student with his hand up. "Yes, Davis, what's your question?"

At the conclusion of class, he could see Bridget approaching his desk in his peripheral vision. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry," she said contritely.

"What for?" he asked, writing a few final notes.

"The 'die of boredom' comment. I didn't mean I thought the class was boring."

He stopped writing and looked up. "Just what I do for a living when I'm not here at Bangor."

"Well, yes, for me it would be," she said. "And you, you're not even really a lawyer."

"Excuse me?" he asked sharply. The last of the students at the door stopped and looked at him at this outburst.

She sighed, sitting on the edge of the desk, glancing to the side. "I just meant that to me, lawyers mean boredom and paperwork and stupid high society causes and shady backroom deals… but you, you defend the rights of the oppressed."

"Oh." He realised she was, in a sense, complimenting him, even though his own work was often filled with boring paperwork. It was her idealism shining through again. In all honesty, he was a bit flattered by her assessment. He looked down, then saw he was gazing directly at her knee, clad only in tights and above that the hem of her skirt. Apparently completely unaware of her motion, she shifted her leg and he saw a bit more than just thigh; in that flash he looked away again, all the while thinking it absurd to be wearing a skirt and tights in February in northern Wales.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I should have just taken you up on speaking about it after class… and sometimes, I can't control my mouth. You know?"

He smiled. "I've noticed. It's quite all right, Bridget. I'd just work on reining that in before you get yourself into real trouble."

"I'll do my best," she said.

…

Mark had apparently found something of a détente with Bridget; the next two weeks were spent in relative calm.

Another Monday, another essay due. Bridget was not only on time for class, but was early. That should have been the indication something was amiss. She approached him wringing her hands, her eyes wide and a bit glossy with imminent tears.

"Professor Darcy," she said. "I need to talk to you."

He was immediately concerned. "What's the matter?"

She sighed heavily. "I have had the worst weekend. My computer has been crashing all over the place, all the labs were full, and… I need a little more time to finish my essay. I know how important punctuality is to you and really… everything was just crazy." She sniffed. "Can I have until Wednesday?"

He regarded her thoughtfully. He knew her penchant for being late to class, but the work itself had always been turned in on time, and was of good quality. "Bring it to my office tomorrow."

"Not Wednesday?" She looked on the verge of bursting into tears, and when she spoke again her tone was reminiscent of a scared little girl's. "I'm so, so sorry."

The last thing he wanted to do was make her cry; she seemed truly remorseful for something that was completely beyond her control. His gaze flitted up towards the door. They were as yet alone in the classroom. "Wednesday it is," he said. "You will bring the essay to class and you will show up early to do it. Show up even one minute beyond eight and you'll get a failing grade on that essay."

Her smile was hesitant but growing. "Thank you so much," she said quietly.

He nodded curtly. Two of the usual early birds arrived at that moment. "Go on, take a seat."

"Okay, great, thank you."

Class discussion that day was focused on non-interference versus the standards of basic human rights as set down by the United Nations. "Some people argue," Mark said, "that we have no right to swoop in to some of these tribal states and impose our system of laws on them. What do you think?"

"I think it's wrong," said Walters, a second-year student in the first row. "We don't have the right to do so to an autonomous state."

"But what about inhumane practises like female circumcision?" Bridget piped up. "Surely we can't sit by and allow this horrible 'tradition' to continue in the name of cultural differences. Women have the right to keep—well. Not be butchered in such a way."

"Walters has a point, though, Bridget," Mark said, striding back and forth at the front of the classroom. "We think it's pretty evident that such practises need to be abolished. But where do we draw the line? What makes that any different than colonial Britain lording over India?"

"Well, clearly the local authorities aren't doing a very good job of preventing it from continuing. In some places this torture is even state-sanctioned!"

"In which places would that be?" Mark asked, stopping his pacing and putting his hands on his hips.

She flushed, looked flustered, and stammered when she spoke. "Well, I don't know exactly off the top of my head—"

"If we could please refrain from hyperbole and unsubstantiated claims," Mark said coolly, "I would appreciate it."

"But that's the point," she said. "We know it happens, we know it's allowed to happen, and we have to intervene. The particulars at this point don't matter—"

"But they do." Mark held up his hand. "That is what makes practising this sort of law the most difficult. I happen to agree with you. That particular practise is barbaric. But we have to be very careful about stepping on the toes of autonomy, both political and cultural." He met Bridget's gaze; her cheeks were pink from the state she'd worked herself into, her expression studious yet a little surprised. "Everything must be done carefully, or else it could potentially spark a powder keg, figuratively speaking. In fact, it has gotten close to that more times than I can count."

"But what's the point of having a worldwide declaration of human rights if they don't apply to all humans because of silly manmade constructs like borders and governments?"

Stunned by her words, he did not have a ready answer for her; in fact, the entire class had gone stone silent. At this Bridget smirked, declaring her victory in the conversation.

"Indeed," said Mark after a moment or two of silence. "What _is_ the point? I would like to have all of your opinions on this matter. An essay on the subject for next class, please."

"What, don't you know?" asked Bridget.

_Cheeky_, he thought. "Of course I know," he said, giving her a quick glare, "but I'll not be seeding your essays for you." Glancing to the clock, he announced that class was over.

He gathered up his things and proceeded out of the classroom, intent for his office to hold office hours. As he reached the door, he heard a familiar voice behind him. "You did that on purpose."

He turned around. Sure enough, it was Bridget. "Did what? Assign my class an essay?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then sighed instead. "Look, I'm sorry if my outburst was the cause of yet another essay."

"Well, it was," he said, "but I think it's a fair point to ponder."

"That and now I have to write two for Wednesday, on top of everything else," she said, then added quickly, "not that I'm not grateful for the extension."

"I have every faith in you," he said. "Is your computer behaving itself?"

She nodded.

"Glad to hear. See you bright and early on Wednesday."

The Tuesday-Thursday sessions of class were so typically uneventful that they barely registered; then again, that track did not have anyone as… unique as Bridget in it. Come Wednesday morning he arrived fifteen minutes early to the classroom, unpacked his things and waited for Bridget to arrive with her papers.

Ten to the hour: no Bridget.

Five to the hour: no Bridget.

With one minute to spare before the clock struck eight, she came sweeping in and slapped two printed pieces of paper down on his desk. She smiled triumphantly then took a seat. He picked them up as other students set theirs down too, skimmed over the essay on which she had gotten an extension. It appeared to be the high calibre of work he had come to expect from her.

When he read the second essay, he chuckled aloud. All she had written was:

_There is no point._

He could not detract from her grade based solely on length, as he had provided no guidance for the minimum, and she had stated her opinion on the matter as he'd requested. He raised his eyes and met her challenging ones; he gathered up the other papers deposited by his students, squared the corners, stood, cleared his throat, and began his lecture.

Later that day, as he took a run around the campus, he encountered his friend Patrick. "Hey," said Patrick as Mark sidled up next to him.

"Hey," Mark replied.

They spent most of their run in companionable silence. They passed other individuals, mostly students, as they ran in the opposite direction. It amused Mark how young and vulnerable they seemed, and as Patrick and he came to a rest on a bench for a breather before heading back they way they had come, Mark commented as such.

Patrick chuckled.

"And sensitive too," Mark added. "Just this week one of my students—very bright, usually ready with a snappy retort at the drop of a hat—was on the verge of tears over the smallest of problems."

"What was this small problem?"

"Unspecified computer crashes, or at least that's what Bridget said."

At this Patrick burst out with a laugh.

"What?"

"It's got to be Jones, right?" sputtered Patrick through his laughter. "That girl's got the most unstable computer on campus. Very inconveniently crashes just before a paper's due, and even more coincidentally this happens on a weekend when there's a very appealing party to attend."

"You're familiar with Bridget?" Even as he asked it, he realised he shouldn't be surprised; she was, after all, a student in his department.

Patrick nodded. Mark felt like a fool for having allowed himself to fall for her story so easily. "Don't worry," he said. His thoughts must have been readily evident. "I presume she did not, at least, turn in the equivalent of '_Othello_ was a v. g. play indeed' scribbled on a cocktail napkin!" As his laughter subsided, Patrick added, "After a while you thicken your skin to their alleged innocence. You have to, or they'll take advantage of you."

"Duly noted," said Mark sheepishly.

They headed back again mostly in silence; Mark was contemplating what had happened while Patrick could be heard chuckling softly to himself.

"I'm glad you're so amused."

"I never thought you of all people would fall so easily for a pair of wide puppy-dog eyes," Patrick said. "Thought court would have toughened you up against that sort of thing."

"I get the point," Mark said snippily. "Believe me, I shall not be fooled again."

Patrick laughed once more. "Don't feel too bad. You are not the first one to be hoodwinked… big blue eyes sparkling as she begs for leniency…"

Mark thought he might have the whole of the weekend to contemplate what he might say to her about the deception. He was wrong. On Friday night he agreed to meet a few of his colleagues at a pub close to campus for a little socialisation. There at a table was a group of students laughing and enjoying pints of ale. Among those students was Bridget, clad in her typical outfit of miniskirt and vee-necked shirt. When she saw him her eyes went wide with surprise. He decided to go and talk to her.

"I hope your computer's good as new," he said.

She picked up her beer and drank, looking at him challengingly. "Hope you enjoyed my essays."

"Absolutely," he said, "though I was expecting more than four words on the subject, given your impassioned argument on the matter in class. Perhaps a few facts to shore it up."

"If it's my opinion," she said, "it's completely subjective, isn't it?"

"Touché," he said, drinking from his own ale. "By the way," he said, "I spoke to someone at the computer lab's help desk. They were surprised to hear that you had problems securing a computer over the weekend, said the sign-in logs were practically empty."

It was a bluff, but from the horrified expression on her face, it was clear she'd been caught in a lie. Her mouth hung slightly open, and futilely she said, "But…"

"No more extensions," he said quietly. "Enjoy your weekend."

With that he turned and joined his acquaintances again, sipping his beer, feeling slightly smug about his interaction, reviewing it in hyper-attentive detail; the way the blush rose to colour her skin, the alarm in her eyes after having looked so smug herself. She was charming and a challenge, and he rather liked it.

"What's are you looking so pleased about?" asked Rob, one of the fellow faculty members he'd accompanied that night.

"Oh," he said, resting back in his chair and grinning. "Just settling a score."

"Who was that girl you were talking to?"

With a residual grin, he explained, "One of my students."

"Oh," Rob said again, dragging out the word.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark asked.

"I think he means that there seemed a little more than teacher-student there, from where we're sitting." This from Danny, another new friend, winking to the others.

"That's ridiculous," said Mark.

Conversation moved to other things—interdepartmental politics, for which he had no interest, and cricket, for which he had only marginally more—but Mark could not stop contemplating what his colleagues had said. It was indeed ridiculous. While it was true they'd known one another very briefly outside of Bangor, their relationship, as it were, was based in the classroom… unless they had seen something in her expression and behaviour that he had not. _Nonsense_, he thought, chiding himself. _Not to mention she's thirteen years younger than I am._

He had to admit, however, that he enjoyed their interactions, even if the bulk of them were the equivalent of verbal sparring. It was refreshing that she did not seem interested in him in that way, that she was not bending over backwards to impress him like so many women had done since his divorce.

Towards the end of the evening, just before Mark was planning on leaving to walk back to his rented house, there was a bit of a commotion nearby. He turned his head to see what the matter was, just as most others in the pub had done; it was Bridget's table, and she was being most insistent.

"Alan, you're taking a taxi," she said, punching a number into her phone.

"I'll be fine to drive," slurred her friend, a young man among the mix at the table with long blond hair pulled into a neat ponytail, a tasteful hoop visible in his ear.

"Bollocks," she said, looking to her friend as she put the phone to her ear and proceeded to order a minicab to come straightaway. "Yes, that's right. The Globe. Ten minutes? Fantastic. Thank you." Bridget got to her feet. She swayed a little as she did but was clearly more sober than Alan was. "Come on. Up you go."

"But what about my car?" Alan asked.

"It'll be fine," she said, tugging on her friend's arm, helping him to stand. "You can come back for it tomorrow."

"Bridge," said Alan in a pathetic tone, "come home with me, please?"

Bridget gave him a piercing look. "I will not," she declared. "You live clear across town, and you're pissed." She slipped on her coat, helped Alan into his.

"Aw, but Bridge," he said, putting his arm about her shoulders, leaning on her a little as they walked. "You know how much I wanna shag you."

This alarmed Mark, made him fear for her safety a little, but this declaration only made Bridget chuckle. "Yes, Alan. You tell me every time you're pissed. And I tell you no." The pub crowd chuckled too in a low murmur. Clearly this scene had panned out before.

"Come on," he said in a whiny voice as they made for the door. As it opened, as they were blasted with wintry air, he added, "It's cold outside."

"A little night air will do you good."

As the door closed behind them, Mark stood, donning his own coat, tying his muffler around his neck then slipping on his gloves. He had every intention of keeping his eye on them until Alan was safely loaded into his cab. "Best be off," he said. "Thanks, mates."

"Cheers, Mark. See you."

When he got outside, Alan was leaned against the brick wall of the pub. Bridget stood a safe distance from him, keeping her eye on him. She looked to Mark just as he stepped out onto the walk. She rolled her eyes and turned away again.

"Oh, great. What are you going to rake me over the coals for now?" she asked with great resignation in her voice.

"Nothing," he said. "Just thought you might want some reinforcements."

The corner of her mouth twitched up into a smile. "I'm fine. I've done this too often to count."

"Perhaps Alan needs to learn his limitations."

"I can hear you, you know," mumbled Alan.

"I think he thinks one of these weeks I'll give in," she said. "Hah."

"All the same," Mark said, "I don't mind waiting with you." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "You must be cold."

"I'm fine," she reiterated. "You don't have to wait."

"How are you getting back to your room?"

"I'm walking," she said, as if he were a dullard. "Like I always do."

It wasn't a long walk, but it was cold and very late. Not a very safe endeavour for a young woman at all. "I'll accompany you."

She snorted a laugh. "Please. I don't need an escort."

"I insist," he said in his firmest, most intimidating tone. "I don't think your father would want to hear you're engaging in reckless behaviour on campus. Drinking 'til the wee hours, walking alone in the dark… lying about your computer is nothing compared to that."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"

"They'd never forgive me if something happened to you," he continued.

She stared a moment more before exhaling loudly and looking away. "First I couldn't get rid of Alan, now I can't get rid of you."

"I can still hear you," Alan said again.

The minicab sidled up the kerb and the driver emerged to open the passenger door. Poor drunken Alan was loaded into the back, and the taxi was sent on its way within minutes. She then looked up to Mark, her gritted teeth actually chattering as she stood there.

"Do you want my scarf?" he asked.

"No," she said, walking away in what Mark presumed was the direction of her building. He caught up in no time at all.

After a few moments of quiet, she spoke up, surprising him. "I am sorry."

"What for?"

She turned to look at him, her lips pursed. "For the essay thing."

"Oh."

"I just… wanted more time to polish it up," she went on. "But my friends insisted I go with them to this party. Just for a little bit, they said, which stretched out into a lot. I didn't want to give you a half-arsed essay."

"It was anything but," he said. "Your work is always very good. Well. Perhaps except for your four word essay, but I must admit even that did get your point across."

She smiled at that, crunching her foot down into a small pile of snow as they walked.

"Your writing style is very nice," he said. "I always enjoy reading it. It flows naturally and is very engaging. It's nothing like what the others turn in, which is just fact after fact with a bit of interstitial stuff to tie it together. Must be that creative writing influence."

She chuckled, then offered him a sincere smile. "Thank you."

He felt himself smiling in return as he contemplated how pretty she looked in the moonlight, despite the late hour and her own waning inebriation.

"Well, here I am," she said as they approached her building. "You didn't really have to walk with me, but thank you."

"It was my pleasure," he said. "Have a nice weekend."

"I will," she said as she slipped the key into the door. She then looked to him with a smirk, winking as she added, "This ball-breaking professor of mine didn't assign an essay due for Monday."

He laughed. "Goodnight."

He waited until she was safely inside before turning and heading back the way he'd come, turning the whole of the evening over in his mind as he walked along. At the forefront of those considerations was how it was the first time he could recall Bridget offering him a genuine smile.

…

Despite it being a very chilly winter, Mark was able to get some exercise, taking advantage of the Maes Glas sports complex; of particular interest was the very high quality five-a-side court as well as a squash court. He noticed his clothes were fitting him a little bit differently, and he felt in better shape all around. He often went with Patrick, but even when he went alone he was able to find students or other staff to join him for a match.

It was particularly blustery day in late February when he and Patrick happened to have the best squash match they'd ever had. Afterwards, to cool down before showering and heading into the icy weather once again, they walked around the complex, in part so that Patrick could point out where the rock climbing wall was.

"I don't think that would really be my thing," Mark quipped.

"I think you'd love it," said Patrick. "I thought the heights would terrify me, but once you're on the wall, your only focus is looking for your next hand- and footholds. It's excellent exercise both mentally and physically, and really clears your head."

"I'll think about—"

He stopped short as they passed what was labelled the ladies' gym. His eye had been caught not by motion, but rather, lack of it: just inside the door, sitting on one of the exercise bicycles with a paperback in one hand and some sort of rolled lettuce, meat and cheese sandwich in the other, was a very familiar girl. She was not pedalling, and right next to her head on the wall was a placard proclaiming in great big red letters that no food was allowed in the gym.

"Bridget?"

Her head popped up at the sound of her name. He noticed as the book lowered that she was wearing slightly more form-fitting clothing than he was used to seeing, a tank top and yoga leggings that accentuated her figure. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail on the crown of her head.

"What are you doing?" Mark continued, fighting the urge to smile. "You can't eat in here."

"I'm not eating. I'm taking an exercise break," she said.

He looked very pointedly at the motionless pedals, then at her food.

"All this lettuce means I'm burning more calories than I'm eating," she added huffily.

Mark heard his friend chuckle.

"A little light reading while you, um, _exercise_?" Mark asked.

She lowered the book even further so that the cover was out of view, but the two of them had already seen that it was a very obviously a Barbara Cartland romance novel. She turned a little pink and said, looking from him to Patrick as she did, "Well, I can't read the likes of _Beowulf_ and _Gilgamesh_ all the time."

Mark said, "You can't stay in here."

She took a bit, chewed then said, mouth half full of food, "But I'm nearly finished."

"Come on," said Patrick, obviously amused.

She popped the last of it into her mouth. Within moments, she declared, "All finished."

He smiled. "If you're not cycling," said Mark matter-of-factly, "you're loitering."

She pursed her lips, then pushed with great effort to get the stationary cycle's gears moving. "See? I'm cycling," she said. "If I get a cramp, it's all your fault. Slave driver."

"I wasn't the one to suggest you have your lunch in the ladies' gym."

At this he actually heard Patrick chuckle out loud.

"Hmm, I suppose," she said thoughtfully as her pedals once more came to a halt. "But as you said, this _is_ the ladies' gym. I hardly think I'm the one who should be leaving." She smiled impishly.

"You have a point, Bridget," said Patrick with a smile. "We best be on our way."

"Bye, Professor Baldwin." With that she gave Mark a challenging look, then resumed reading.

The two men departed for the changing room. He heard Patrick chuckling to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," he said. "She's a firecracker, though."

Mark smiled hesitantly. "I suppose that's one way of thinking of her."

"Does she do that in class, too?"

"What do you mean?"

"Get you all defensive and worked up," Patrick said with a grin.

"I was not," Mark said curtly, realising his mistake as he said it and setting Patrick off into gales of laughter.

"Definite sparks, though," said Patrick through his breaths.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Well, you both obviously enjoyed that the entire time."

"Enjoyed arguing? You're mad."

"Some people do," said Patrick. "And that wasn't an argument. It was a verbal ballet. Quite entertaining to observe."

Mark glanced away, but smirked to himself and thought that discussions with Bridget, even if they didn't see eye to eye, were always enjoyable on some level. She did not cave in like other students often did; she did not defer to his opinion just because he was older and the instructor. "Is she like that in your class, too?"

"Not quite so much heel-digging-in," said Patrick, "but yes. She has definite opinions on literature and, as you've seen, other things. But I have a theory on that."

They reached the men's change room. Mark thought he could do with a run through the shower before heading out for his afternoon, so pulled the bag out of his locker to fish out his towel. "What's your theory?"

"Well, she's prone to saying the first thing on her mind, usually at her own expense, and she doesn't seem to let it bother her," said Patrick, pulling his bag out too, "but I think the brave face is a cover for serious self-doubt and insecurity."

"But why would she need that? She smart, she's witty—and she's very attractive."

"She has a really unique and interesting writing style, and picks up on the smallest details in the analyses she turns in, but there's always this undertone of… not really trusting herself or her capability." Patrick put his towel over his arm. "She didn't make up the story about the crashed computer because of malice. In fact, given a few minutes more she probably would have cried for real. She really… um, she means well, and she's a sweet girl."

Mark and Patrick went into their respective shower stalls. As he washed up, Mark considered what Patrick had said, and realised it confirmed everything Mark had never even consciously suspected. She was sweet, evidenced by the tenderness she had showed to her father; and perhaps the defensiveness she showed in class was due to a sensitivity about her lack of legal expertise, compounded by the way the other students teased her in class about her idealistic ways.

He would in future just have to bear this in mind; speak a little less harshly to her, give her the credit she deserved, even more so considering she did not have the same legal background that her classmates possessed.

As he left the building, saying goodbye to Patrick and heading towards his office, he was approached by one of the students from his second-track class. "I was hoping to run into you, sir," said the boy as he sidled up to Mark; he recalled his name was Williams. "I had a few questions about class yesterday—excellent class, by the way—and the assignment that's due for Tuesday."

"I have office hours in thirty minutes," said Mark, glancing to his watch. "You didn't have to ambush me outside of the fitness centre."

"Sorry, sorry," Williams said. "I had intended on doing so but seeing you here, I thought I might get a head start. I'll just go get a coffee instead… then meet you at your office." After a pause, he asked hopefully, "Would you like me to buy you a coffee too? I could bring it back to for you."

"That's not necessary," he said; although a coffee sounded good, Williams' ploy to curry favour seemed all too evident.

"Right-o. See you then." Williams sprinted off with the enthusiasm of youth he'd expect. It reminded Mark how much he appreciated that Bridget was one of the few that did not seem to want to ply him with compliments and deferrals because he was who he was.

_Indeed, rather the opposite_, he thought with a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Into the Fire**  
3 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,402 in total, 6,273 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 3.**

"So how's everything up north?"

It was his mother, with whom he spoke weekly by phone. She had been quite surprised to hear of the coincidence of Pam and Colin's daughter being one of his students. Elaine had told him she had heard that Bridget was attending uni there but had quite forgotten.

"Very busy," he said. Patrick had not been kidding when he said things would get busier as the semester went on. He was already hard at work compiling the midterm exam. He couldn't imagine how busy he'd be if he'd had more than one class (subject-wise) with which to contend.

"You always say that," she joked.

"It's always true."

"Things are calmer than they were in London though, aren't they?"

"Yes," he said after a moment's thought.

"You do sound better," she said. "Happier. Maybe you should think about staying on if they ask you."

"This has been a nice breather," he said. "But my heart lies in practising the law itself."

He heard her chuckle. "I suppose I should not be surprised to hear you say that, considering you've been expressing that opinion for nearly fifteen years. So are you coming back for Easter?"

Easter break was two weeks away, at the end of the month of March, and was three weeks in duration; he had not given thought to his plans for that time, and told his mother so.

"You should come and stay with us. Plenty of peace and quiet."

"I should spend time in town, too," he said. "Check in on the house and such."

In the end he decided he would drive down to Grafton Underwood and spend the first week of his break with his parents, spend Easter Sunday with them, then head further south to London. His mother proclaimed it a very fine idea, and wished him a good week. "Until we speak next weekend," she said.

As he hung up the phone, he realised how the teaching and everything associated with it had thus far had accomplished exactly what he'd wanted it to do: take his mind off of what he had been so obsessed with over the previous year's time. It was not as if he had no right to have his thoughts so occupied, but to continue to hang on to such negative thoughts was not good for him or his psyche. A change of scenery and the company he'd kept was, he thought, helping him to move on.

The time up through the impending break went more quickly than he thought it could. His students took their midterms; he would be grading them over the holiday. That final Wednesday before the break, as Bridget was packing up her things to leave the classroom, he wondered suddenly what her plans were and if she had secured transportation back to Grafton Underwood. "Bridget," he said abruptly. "May I see you a moment?"

She looked up, somewhat perplexed and alarmed, though came closer to him. "Yes?"

Quietly he asked, "What are your plans for the Easter break?"

She seemed a little surprised that he would ask, but answered with a sigh. "I don't know. I was going to take the train down but I… don't have enough money for a ticket, and I hate asking Dad to buy one for me again."

"Ah," he said, slipping his papers into his attaché. "I'm driving down Thursday after class. You could ride with me if you want."

She regarded him sceptically. "Are you going to shout at me if I listen to music?"

"No," he said. "In fact, you can play your music on the car stereo. It will make for a more interesting drive."

She smiled, evidently warming a little. "That's awfully nice of you. Thanks."

She was, to no one's surprise, late to the appointed meeting place on Thursday, but not by much. She was full of apologies as he emerged from the car to put two of her bags in the boot. "I brought some snacks," she said, indicating her third bag. "And a couple of books, in case you want me to shut up."

He laughed. "Surely you have some revising to do," he said. "In fact, I recall a certain reading assignment specifically for the break."

The four hour trip was very pleasant; she was unbelievably easy to talk to, or rather, unsurprisingly easy to talk to. They talked about a wide range of subjects, from the trivial (upcoming campus events) to the more serious (veering closely into topics best left for the classroom, regarding conflicts in Asia and Africa). It was clear to him however that although this subject was not one she intended on making her life's work, she had a very keen interest in and a deep caring for her fellow human beings.

As she offered him a biscuit, he thought she could probably pretty easily skip the reading assignment and still be far ahead of her classmates. "Thank you," he said.

He could see in the periphery of his vision as he accepted the chocolate biscuit that the corner of her mouth turned up in a sly smile. "So, what do you think of this?"

She had put one of her compact discs, and it was light, poppy and not at all unpleasant. "It isn't bad at all. Who is it?"

He heard her laugh abruptly. "You're joking, right?"

He turned to fix his gaze on her.

"It's Madonna," she said in disbelief. "Like, the biggest female artist of the whole of the eighties. Were you living under a rock?"

"I don't have much use for popular music," he said, slightly offended, turning away and focusing on the road again.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," she said. "I just haven't met anyone who hadn't heard of Madonna before."

"I've heard of her," he said. "I just was unfamiliar with her music."

He could hear her giggling softly, muttering under her breath, "Doesn't know Madonna. Unbelievable!"

"You don't have to sound like I'm some kind of ancient artefact," he said.

"What about—" she began, then rattled off a list of names he did not at all recognise.

"Probably," he answered noncommittally. Surely he had heard their music without knowing who they were.

"You were probably more into, I dunno, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como—"

"I'm not _that_ old," he retorted.

She laughed and turned away to look out the window, then sighed. "I think we're almost there," she said.

"Yes."

She looked back to him. "So what have you planned for the break? Besides scheming more torture for us?"

He grinned. "Perhaps not the best word to use given the nature of the class," he said. "Among other things, I have to grade your midterm exams."

"Oh, so you have them with you?" she asked. "So if they were to mysteriously disappear, what would happen? Would we all get highest marks by default?"

He chuckled. "Do you intend on hijacking my briefcase?"

"Is that where they are? I mean, ohhh, of course not," she said with an overly dramatic tone. He glanced to the side to see she was grinning too.

"So what sort of thing has your mother planned for Easter," he began, "given her track record for other major holidays?"

"No idea," she said, "but she can't seem to let go of the idea of Easter the way it was when I was a little girl. She wants to do the eggs and the candy baskets and everything. Though I will be honest: I do like all the chocolate."

He chuckled again.

"Did I tell you what she did for Easter last year?" she asked unexpectedly.

"I don't think so."

"I'm not sure where she got the idea, perhaps Una's trip to Greece, I don't know," she said, "but instead of the usual, we got…" She paused dramatically. "Lamb kebabs."

"You're joking," he said through his laughter.

"I wish that I were," she said. "I have to admit, though, they were pretty good."

"Perhaps this year you'll be treated to lamb curry," he said drolly, recalling his mother mentioning a recent trip to India by Una and Geoffrey.

"Don't give my mother any ideas," she said. "I'm rather partial to the usual lamb with mint. And Heaven forbid an Easter should pass without hot cross buns."

"Heaven forbid, indeed," he said with a smile. "Did you know in America they have ham for Easter?"

"Ugh," she said. "Unnatural and wrong."

At that he laughed aloud again.

"You'll have to come over and have some of Mum's hot cross buns."

"Are they miniature sized?" he asked.

"What?"

"Well, at New Year's, everything was miniaturised versions—"

She interrupted with a laugh. He liked how easily she laughed, how easily she was able to make him laugh. "No. Normal sized."

The junction for Grafton Underwood was within sight now, so he indicated and turned off appropriately. She directed him to her parents' house, though in a town that small he hardly needed it. He popped open the boot then got out of the car to bring her bags to the door for her.

"Well. Thanks again for the ride," she said, "and thanks for bringing those up for me."

"It was my pleasure." It truly had been.

As soon as she opened the door, she went over to her father and offered him a big hug; it was endearing to see such unbridled affection. He said a brief hello to both her father and her mother—who were very grateful for his bringing her home—before climbing back into the car to head to his own family's home. He realised as he pulled away from her house that she had not taken her book out of her bag the entire time. He was glad. The long drive really had seemed to go by in the blink of an eye with her there.

"Mark!" It was his mother, who so happened to be in the foyer of the house as he came in with his own bags. He followed Bridget's lead and gave her a hug. "What's that for?" she asked, clearly surprised.

"I'm just glad to see you, that's all."

She pulled away to regard her son, scrutinising his features. "You're looking awfully refreshed."

"It was a very smooth drive," he said. "Plus I had company."

"Who?"

He really thought he'd mentioned it to his mother. "I brought Bridget back to Grafton Underwood. Didn't seem sensible not to."

"Oh, that was quite thoughtful of you," she said. "How's she doing in your class?"

"Frankly, she's my best student," he said, "and that's saying something considering the rest of them are allegedly in the law course."

Elaine chuckled.

"I can't say anything, though," Mark added. "It would make her head swell and she'd be even later than usual to class."

"That sounds like Bridget," said Elaine. "Never was a punctual sort."

…

He was initially grateful for the silence and solitude in which to grade his midterms as well as plan out essay assignments, quizzes and ultimately the final exam, but as the week progressed he was starting to go a little stir-crazy. He took a walk around his parents' property; it was nice to be out of the persistent icy cold of north-western Wales and into burgeoning springtime. He also drove into nearby Kettering for some last minute Easter gifts. On the spur of the moment, he bought a small chocolate bunny for his best student.

Easter Sunday meant their traditional dinner of lamb. Mark decided to take a drive over in the morning, both for the promised hot cross bun and chocolate delivery. Mrs Jones was surprised to see him, but naturally let him in.

"Your daughter mentioned there would be hot cross buns for the offering," he said.

Pamela smiled. "Oh, of course you're welcome, plenty to go around… hot tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Pam led him to the kitchen, fixed him a bun on a plate and made him a cup of tea. It was in serving him this that she noticed then that Mark had set the foil-wrapped rabbit on the table beside him. "What's that?"

"Oh, a little Easter treat for Bridget. She mentioned liking Easter chocolates. Where is she, by the way?"

"Still sleeping," confided Pam. "Wants the Easter candy but can't be bothered to get up early for it. She's sort of a night owl, don't know where she gets it from. Certainly not me."

"Oh. Well, be sure I said hello."

"I heard the tea kettle—" Entering the kitchen at that moment was none other than Bridget herself. Clearly she had not been expecting him to be there, judging from her abrupt cessation of speech, and the fact that she was dressed only in a cotton nightshirt that came to mid-thigh. She folded her arms over her chest as her skin flushed bright red. "Uh. Hi."

He quickly looked back to his plate to spare her modesty, feeling heat creep up over his own neck and face. Her attire wasn't revealing or in any way transparent, but it did serve to highlight her attractive, youthful figure and shapely legs. "Good morning," he said. "Happy Easter."

"Bridget, care for some tea, a bun?"

"Yes, please." She sat down at the table, and only then did he dare to look up again. "Happy Easter," she said to Mark in reply at last.

He pushed the chocolate bunny in her direction. "This is for you."

"Oh," she said, smiling unsurely. "That's nice of you. Thanks." She pulled a face. "I don't have anything for you."

"I have a hot cross bun," he said. "That'll do."

Her mother brought her some tea and a hot cross bun, which she dove into with great relish, her discomfort apparently forgotten. Pam then excused herself and left the kitchen.

"I'd ask you what your plans are for the day," he said, "but it does not look like you have had time yet to ponder that."

She smiled. "Well, I'll get to raid my basket. Mum did up some eggs. I only hope she hasn't hidden them. I don't want to have to go on an Easter egg hunt." After another bite she said, "Got some Easter money from my Gran, so I'm taking the train down to London to stay with friends."

"Oh?" He thought about the last time he dropped her off to London, the enthusiastic greeting by that young man at the door of the building at which he'd dropped her off. "Visiting your boyfriend?"

"What?" she asked perhaps a little too loudly, as she then spun to ensure her mother had not heard. "What?" she asked again in a quieter voice. "I don't have a boyfriend."

He drew his brows together. "Then who…" He drifted off. Perhaps he had made an erroneous assumption.

"Who what?" she asked.

He lowered his voice. "The man who greeted you. When I gave you a lift to London."

She stared for a moment until her lips formed a broad grin. "Oh, Christ," she said, starting to laugh. "You mean Tom?"

"I guess," he said.

"Tom's as gay as the day is long," she said.

Her laughter was infectious, and he began laughing as well. "Sorry," he said. "You have to admit it was a logical conclusion, though."

"Perhaps," she said, "if you assume all men to be heterosexual."

"Quite true," he said, focusing on his bun, of which about a quarter remained. He was slightly disturbed, though was determined not to show it; why had he felt such a sense of relief at her explanation? "When are you going? Do you want a lift?"

She laughed suddenly.

"What?"

"You're more like a chauffeur than a professor," she said. "But if you don't mind taking me to Tom's again, I'd appreciate it. I can, I don't know, pitch in for money for petrol."

"Not necessary," he said. "I'd be making the drive anyway tonight."

"Sure. When tonight?" she asked.

He grinned. "After supper?"

"Sounds great."

Mark was just considering how nice his drive to London would be with company—particularly her company—when his thoughts were interrupted. "Good morning, pumpkin… oh! Hello, Mark." It was Colin Jones. "Happy Easter to the both of you."

Bridget rose from her chair, apparently forgetting for the moment that she was dressed only in her nightgown, to hug her father then kiss him on the cheek. As she raised her arms for that hug, as the hem of her nightshirt lifted, he directed his gaze away. "Happy Easter, Dad," she said, sitting again and sipping her tea.

"So Mark," said Colin, putting the kettle on for himself, "how's Bridget doing in class? Not driving you mad, is she?"

He glanced to Bridget, then up to Colin. "Not at all," he said rather neutrally.

"Not too much, I think you mean," said Colin with a grin.

"Dad," she said with a modicum of offence.

"Oh, my dear, you know I love you," said her father, "but you are anything but a shrinking violet, particularly when making your opinions known." To Mark he said confidentially, "Gets it from her mother."

"_Dad_," she said again. She was bright pink in colour.

"She's not driving me mad," Mark said. "She's a very good student, even if her punctuality leaves something to be desired." He dared to look at her once more, offering her a small smile, which coaxed one out of her in return.

His food and tea were gone, so he thought it best to leave; at that moment he rose and pulled himself to his full height. "Well, glad to have experienced for myself Mrs Jones' excellent hot cross buns. Thank you very much, and Happy Easter again." As she went to stand, he turned to her and said, "Please, don't get up. I'll see myself out. And I'll see you tonight?"

"Yes."

Belatedly he realised it almost sounded like they had arranged a date, so he hastily explained for her father's benefit, "She's going to ride down to London with me, save the train ticket fare."

"Oh, awfully nice of you Mark," said Colin. "Awfully nice indeed. A very Happy Easter to your parents from the lot of us."

He nodded, and with that, he excused himself.

At supper that night, it was a comment by his own father that put him squarely into a contemplative state. He noticed the man regarding him very thoughtfully.

"What is it?" asked Mark.

"Being up there has done you a world of good, Mark. You look very well, very healthy, very happy. Much more relaxed than you were before you left."

He brought his brows together. "I wager it's the break that's relaxed me, not the job at Bangor."

"Mark, you've spent time away from London with us before," Malcolm went on. "Besides, you've been like this since you got here."

"Have I?" Teaching was certainly stressful, just in a different sort of way than his work.

"Be honest, my boy," he said, setting his silverware down. "Is there someone you're not telling us about?"

"What?"

"You know, a special lady you've met in Bangor."

It took a moment or two for the meaning to filter through: his father thought he had a girlfriend. "What? No!" he said abruptly.

"Goodness, Mark," said his mother. "No need to be snappish."

"Sorry," he said. "I just mean, why does it have to be that I've met a woman? I haven't met anyone." Traitorously, his best student, his road-trip companion, popped up unbidden into his mind. "Perhaps it's just that I'm feeling less overwhelmed in general."

Elaine pursed her lips. "Perhaps," she said, "but I don't understand why you're so defensive."

He looked down to his plate. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I guess I'm a little sensitive to everyone suggesting I should be ready to have a new girlfriend."

"No, son, I'm sorry," said his father. "I did not mean to offend. You just seemed to be that kind of happy."

He raised his eyes to meet his father's. "Of course you didn't mean to offend," Mark said in a gentler tone. "It's all right. Let's just drop it."

"Let's," said Malcolm, his cheery demeanour returned. "Dinner's getting cold."

No lasting damage was done; the rest of dinner was very pleasant, and he bade a warm farewell to his parents before driving off to the Joneses for Bridget.

_That kind of happy_, he thought, considering his father's words. His father had clearly been seeing things that weren't there. Mark was simply more relaxed after being away from the sorts of enquiries he had been subjected to over supper. It had nothing to do with Bridget or any other woman. Nothing at all.

He realised he had not set a specific time nor had phoned in advance to let her know he was on his way, so in knocking on the door he understood when no one answered promptly.

"Mark, oh goodness." Pam Jones pulled the door open. "I don't think she's quite ready."

"That's okay."

"Come in, you can have something to drink if you like."

He came in, took off his jacket then sat down on the sofa. Colin was in his recliner, reading the newspaper. He accepted a glass of water from Pam then sat back. "We meet again," said Colin, who then looked up with a smirk.

"Indeed, sir."

"Really do appreciate your taking her to London," he said, as he carried on reading. "One less thing to worry about. I know I can trust you with her."

"Thank you," said Mark, feeling guilty for reasons he could not quite articulate.

Within ten minutes she was down the stairs with her bags in hand and a smile on her face. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she said.

He set the glass down then got to his feet. "It's quite all right. It's not like I specified a time for you."

"True," she said. "Well, we should be off." She turned and gave her mum a hug and a peck on the cheek, then did the same for her dad as he rose to accept it. "Bye."

"Bye, moppet," said Colin, giving her a tight hug. "Have a nice time in town."

Pam narrowed her eyes. "Nothing funny's going on with that friend of yours?"

"Mum, I told you: he likes _men_."

"I don't know," she said. Oddly, it almost seemed to Mark that Pam both did and did not want something 'funny' going on with her friend. She turned to Mark. "You see her at school, Mark. She doesn't have a boyfriend, does she?"

"Mother, _really_!" interjected Bridget, flushing red.

"I don't know, but even if she had," Mark said, trying to allay her embarrassment, "I would hardly expect her to confide in me."

"Let's go," Bridget said, rushing towards the door. He followed quickly behind her, muttering quiet goodnights.

Once they were driving, she spoke again. "I'm sorry for that," she said. "My mother is the queen of inappropriate questions."

"It's okay," he said, then glanced to her. She was looking out of the window. "I suppose she just wants to know if you're happy."

"She just wants to know my business," she said. "Like I can't have secrets if I want."

"It must be difficult not to think of one's daughter or son as anything but a child, even given the evidence to the contrary," he said.

"I'm staying in London," she said, "I mean, after I graduate. I don't care if I have to sleep on Tom's sofa, I'm not going back to live with them again."

"They love you," he said.

"I know they do," she said. "But… ugh. Living for three years on my own… I can't give up that independence."

He chuckled under his breath. "I'd be surprised if you did." Glancing to her again, he saw a smile cross her lips. "What are your plans after graduation?"

"I'm job hunting over the break," she said. "Newspapers, publishing houses, so on. Get my foot in the door…"

"And take over the place in no time."

She laughed. "Something like that." He was glad to see her in better spirits. "Oh," she said, reaching for her bag. "I brought something for you listen to."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm," she said, digging out a compact disc. "I made it."

"You what?"

"Burned you a CD of the biggest songs of the last ten years. Kind of a… pop culture review."

He smiled. "Coaxing me out from under my rock?"

"If you want to put it like that," she said with a grin. She popped the disc in.

To his credit, he did recognise about a third of the songs on the disc she'd made; he just had not known the artist or the song title. She seemed proud, though coached him to memorise the rest. By the third iteration of playing the disc, she was prompting him to sing along. To his surprise, he did.

Next to a four hour drive, two hours seemed like nothing at all, particularly when they had such fun talking about the music, then movies and other trivial things. She was so lively, so engaging, that he wondered how anyone like her could be insecure about her talents or herself.

She had to prompt him with Tom's address upon reaching London, but once she did, he found he'd remembered the way.

"Good luck with the job search," he said as the car slid up to the kerb.

"Thanks."

He turned to look at her. "Want a hand with your bags?"

"Oh, no, I'll be fine," she said. She had thrown then in the back seat instead of the boot.

"You know, I'll be driving up on the Saturday morning before classes resume," he said. "If you find yourself in need of a lift back."

She laughed, undoubtedly recalling what she'd said about his being more chauffeur than professor. "I'd like that a lot," she said. "For all my previous protests, it really does beat the train, which is… smelly, noisy, and filled with weirdoes."

This prompted another chuckle from him. "And it probably takes a lot longer," he said. "Well. See you next Saturday at… ten, then?"

"See you then. Right here." Taking him completely by surprise, she leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his cheek. As she drew back, she furrowed her brows, tinting pink. "Oh."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she said, flushing a deeper crimson. "That was… hm. Probably not appropriate."

He smiled a little, still feeling a bit shocked. "Don't worry about it."

She nodded, forcing a little smile of her own. "Well. Thanks again. Bye."

He was still too stunned to rise from the car to help with her bags or to walk her to Tom's door. He was sure she meant nothing by it except for a friendly goodbye; the teacher/student wall had been so sufficiently eroded during their drives that he reasoned she just hadn't thought before acting.

Ultimately, he pushed it from his thoughts. There was no point in reading anything more into it.

…

His colleagues in chambers were glad to see him. Universally they declared that the break to teach up in Bangor was just the thing he needed to recover himself. Wisely, none of them asked anything divorce-related, nor did they ask if his improved outlook and demeanour meant that he had a girlfriend. He was far more sociable than usual, dining with friends and acquaintances more frequently than was the norm.

It was during one of those excursions out, having lunch with one of the family law experts in chambers, that he actually spied Bridget out and about. She was with a man whose back was to Mark; he clearly was comfortable, financially speaking, to bring her to a place such as this one. She raised her eyes and met Mark's. Obviously surprised to see him, she smiled and waved.

That's when her luncheon date turned to see to whom she was waving. To Mark's utter shock, it was Daniel Cleaver, the man who had betrayed him with his own wife.

Mark could not sit back and let such a train wreck happen. "Excuse me," he said to his companion, then got to his feet and approached the table.

As he got nearer to the pair of them, he realised she had papers fanned on the table off to her side. It might well have been a job interview, but knowing Daniel as he did, knowing the unabashed womaniser that he was, Mark suspected Daniel's agenda went beyond hiring someone for an entry-level position.

"Hello, Professor Darcy," she said. He looked from Bridget to Daniel as Bridget did the same. By way of introduction, she said to Daniel, "He teaches my History of Human Rights Law class. And this is Mr Cleaver. He's with Pemberley Press."

"We are already acquainted," Mark said coolly.

"Oh!" said Bridget. "What a small world."

"Indeed," said Mark, not looking away from Daniel.

"I have a position she'd be perfect for," said Daniel, smirking slightly. The innuendo was not lost on Mark.

"I'll bet you have," Mark replied. "Bridget, gather your things and come with me."

"What?" said Bridget. "_Why?_"

"Trust me."

She gaped. "You're mad!"

"Don't make a scene," he snipped, glowering at her, reaching for her papers and her jacket since she had made no move to do so. "Come on." As she got to her feet, he reached for her, grabbed her upper arm just over her elbow and tugged it, evidently shocking her into silence.

Daniel stood as well. "It's a shame I won't be able to have Miss Jones at Pemberley," he said.

"She doesn't need what you're prepared to offer her," Mark said darkly. "Goodbye."

He strode back to his own table with her in tow. "Can't you at least tell me why you ruined my job interview?" she hissed.

He stopped short; she practically walked into him. He turned his most serious gaze to her. "No." He began walking again. She said nothing more.

His companion, a dark-haired woman called Natasha, looked both confused and peeved at the appearance of a third party at their table. "Have a seat," Mark said.

Petulantly Bridget stood there, folding her arms over her chest. Her eyes were very glossy.

"Have you ordered yet?" he asked of Bridget.

"What does it matter?" she said, voice laden with spite. "I can't afford this place."

"Who is this, Mark?" asked Natasha haughtily.

"Daughter of family friends," he said in a clipped tone, "and one of my students. And don't be ridiculous, Bridget. You'll join us to have your food."

Resigned, she took her seat.

The waiter came to the table looking quite concerned. Mark explained that he should bring Bridget's meal to their table, and that he would be taking care of her bill. She looked unexpectedly annoyed to hear it.

Natasha's attitude improved slightly. "Student, hm? You must be looking forward to graduating in a few years."

"I graduate at the end of the term," said Bridget, shooting a fierce glare in her direction.

"Oh, well, I am sorry," she said without a trace of sincerity. "It's so hard to pinpoint children's ages sometimes."

Bridget's plate was placed before her, a chicken dish of some variety. She turned to the waiter. "I'd like a glass of Chardonnay, please."

"Any particular vintage?" he asked.

"Um, whichever you recommend."

He cleared his throat gently. "May I see some identification?"

He watched Bridget's face flush red. "Of course," she said, fishing out her driving licence and handing it to him.

"I'll have that right out for you, miss." He bowed respectfully at the waist, then left the table. He heard Natasha laugh in a muffled way that told Mark that she had no intention of trying to hide her amusement at Bridget's embarrassment.

Natasha then launched into a long and winding story, barely stopping for breath, talking to Mark and completely ignoring Bridget, who ate in sullen silence. Mark was suddenly tired of his colleague's company. She was self-centred and rude… and he did not know how he had noticed it before.

Without waiting to see if either woman wanted coffee or a light dessert, he asked for the bill to pay for lunch.

"Mark," said Natasha in a cloyingly sweet voice. "Perhaps we could do this again sometime soon… alone."

Mark said nothing, did not even smile. "Goodbye."

As Natasha left, he turned to Bridget, who was slipping into her jacket and scooping her papers into her bag. She then gave him an angry look before turning and walking away.

Hurriedly he followed her out of the restaurant and onto the street. "I'll bring you back to your friend's place."

"I got here on my own," she seethed, "and I can get back on my own, thank you."

"Look, Bridget, I'm sorry about your interview. Believe me, it was for your own good."

She stopped and spun around. "Don't patronise me," she said, fire in her eyes. "I am not some child in need of protection."

"As you astutely observed, Mr Cleaver and I were previously acquainted," he said in hushed tones, feeling his own anger build. "The terms by which we dissolved our friendship had everything to do with my interrupting your interview."

"And yet you are not going to tell me what those terms were," she said. "Like I'm supposed to just take your word for it that you were doing me a favour. Like you know what's better for me than I do."

"I was not about to tell you anything in the middle of the restaurant with all of those people hanging on our every word," he said. "It's called 'discretion', Bridget, something that you at times fail to grasp."

She made a show of looking around herself to point out that no one was around, at least no one that was paying attention to their conversation. "So what's stopping you now?"

It was not something he liked to talk about, something he had been doing his best to forget for the better part of sixteen months, but he sallied forth anyway, because he thought she deserved to know after ruining her chance for a job. As he gave her the barest details, he watched her face transform from indignant anger to sympathetic sadness.

"I took the job at Bangor to get away from everything that reminded me of it," he concluded. "Of him and of her, and away from all of the constant questions about it."

She did not respond immediately, just studied his face with her hand over her open mouth, until she launched herself forward and threw her arms around him for a comforting hug. "Oh, Mark," she said softly. "You were right. I'm so sorry."

It was the first time he could ever recall hearing her address him by his first name. The tenderness and genuineness of her response, coupled with her spontaneous comfort, touched him very deeply. He brought his arms up to return the hug.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Oh, Christ," she said, pulling back suddenly. "Too much wine. I'm sorry. Talk about inappropriate."

He smiled. "It's all right. Your intentions were good."

She smiled too, looking relieved. "I would have hated for your girlfriend to see."

"Girlfriend?" he said. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Oh," said Bridget. "Well, with the way she was all over you, I just assumed maybe you and she… you know… sometimes…"

He blinked in disbelief. "All over me?"

She looked at him with equal disbelief, then started to laugh. "You mean you didn't notice?"

He laughed too. "I guess not," he said sheepishly. Natasha was too unpleasant a person to be anyone's girlfriend; he wondered what had possessed him to lunch with her, anyway. "In any case, she isn't my girlfriend."

"Oh," she repeated.

"Come on, you're a long way from Tom's place. Let me take you there."

Fences suitably mended, she agreed.

"I do have another interview tomorrow," she admitted as they cut through the streets of London. "With a newspaper. With a woman."

"That's all well and good," he said, "if you assume all women to be heterosexual."

At that she laughed out loud at this echo of her own words. "Very true."

"Well, I wish you the best, of course," he said. "I think you'll do great."

"Thanks." After a thoughtful moment, she added, "Perhaps it was fate that brought you and me to that same restaurant today. Maybe taking that job would have been the worst idea ever."

"Maybe," he said. "See you on Saturday."

"Ten a.m. See you then."

She rose from the car and let herself into Tom's building, but not before turning and waving to let him know she was okay. Clearly her friend had made a key for her. He waved in return, then departed for home. During the drive to Holland Park, his head was filled with thoughts of lunch, considering again his poor choice of lunch partner. How had he never noticed what a shrill harpy Natasha was? His thoughts went beyond her, though, straight back to his ex-wife, and how similar in personality and temperament both women were. He wondered if he had blinders on when it came to the women in his social circle. He had, in the past, seemed all too willing to forgive them their abrupt, shallow nature because he assumed it was what had to be done to have someone in one's life.

That was going to change, he thought. Well, should the right woman come along.


	4. Chapter 4

**Into the Fire**  
4 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total [recalculated due to an addition to this part], 6,110 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 4.**

"So how did I do?"

Approximately five minutes into the drive out of London, she asked this of him. He had absolutely no idea about what she was speaking. "What?"

"On the midterm," she asked. "Did I pass?"

She had indeed passed with a score above the median grade, but it did not seem proper to discuss her grade outside of the classroom. "I can't say anything."

"Oh God," she said sadly. "I didn't pass."

"I did not say you did or didn't pass," Mark reiterated. "I said I can't say. I meant until class."

"Oh." She sat back in her seat. "Not even a little hint?"

He laughed. "Don't press your luck." He shifted up into the next gear. "How did your interview go?"

"Very well," she said. "In fact, I got a job offer."

"Oh, that's great news. Congratulations."

"Thank you," she said. "I start a couple of weeks after the end of the term. Gives me time to get settled in London. I'll still have to crash for a while with Tom until I can find my own place… but I am so excited."

"How do you know Tom, anyhow?"

"It's a very long story," she said. "And no, there was never a time when Tom was confused about whether he wanted a boyfriend or a girlfriend." He looked over to see her grinning crookedly. "I had no delusions about our friendship, though God knows my mother does. 'He's just being lazy, darling.' That's what I get every time I mention him."

He chuckled. "What does he do? For a living, I mean."

"He's a performer," said Bridget.

"And that means…?"

She did not respond. He turned to see her giving him a sidelong look.

"He sings?" guessed Mark.

"Yes," she said, overcome with laughter. "That's it. He sings. Just… not in clubs you would go to."

"That's not very open-minded of you," he said in a mock-stern voice. "How do you know I wouldn't?"

Still giggling, she said, "Let's make a pact, then. When we're both in London again, I will take you to see Tom."

"Sounds like a deal."

She smiled, then looked out the window to watch the landscape fly by. "Okay then."

The plan was to stop in Birmingham, which was about midway, for lunch and a break. He popped the disc in that she had burned for him and allowed that to fill the silence instead of conversation. It was by no means a move to cover discomfort or awkwardness, but rather, served to underscore how far their friendship of sorts had progressed since that first shared car ride from Grafton Underwood to London on New Year's. After the last song on the disc had ended, he asked if she would press play again; after no response, he looked to her and realised she had drifted to sleep.

He wondered how late she'd stayed out last night. Since she had not been ready to go when he'd arrived, Mark had gone to the building's door and had rung the bell for the only flat with the first initial 'T' next to the bell. A bleary-eyed man had answered the door, a haggard, more unkempt version of the young man who had let her in before. Mark had introduced himself, had explained why he was there; Tom had huffed out a great breath, muttering something about Bridget's not having said anything about a ride showing up so early.

He hadn't thought it necessary to wait in the apartment, particularly after hearing her shriek at her appearance and curse at herself for oversleeping. When she'd come out thirty minutes later with a handful of chocolate chip biscuits in her grip and Tom carrying her bags with a cigarette dangling off of his lower lip, she'd been deeply apologetic; she explained that she'd absolutely had to shower, but at least she had been fully packed to go.

Now, leaning up against the window with her knit cap resting against the glass, she was sleeping, and it amazed him again how absolutely and deceptively angelic she looked whilst doing so. He leaned slowly to the side, not taking his eyes off the road except to glimpse for a moment to press play to start it again.

How quickly Birmingham seemed to be upon them; he mused to himself that driving long distances on his own would in future feel like an eternity. "Bridget?" he said to rouse her, not that he was at all confident it would wake her. "Bridget?" he asked again, to no avail. He reached over and used his knuckles to nudge against her jeaned knee, saying her name one more time.

She gasped and blinked a few times. "Yes, what?" she asked drowsily.

"We're almost there."

"Bangor?"

He chuckled. "No. Birmingham."

"Oh," she said, then laughed. "No, I don't suppose you'd've let me sleep through lunch. Sorry to be such poor company though. Tom and I were up sort of late."

"I never would have thought," he said wryly. "I'm not terribly familiar with the restaurants here, but I did have a good curry on my way up the first time through."

"Oh, that sounds nice," she said. "I love curry. New Year's notwithstanding."

At this he laughed. "Curry it is."

He took them to the same restaurant he had patronised in January. It was a quaint little local place run by an older Indian couple. Bridget seemed to love it, and particularly loved the food. To his surprise, at the end of the meal, she swiped up the ticket.

"I'm paying," she announced.

It wasn't an expensive ticket, but he knew that students didn't typically have a lot of money to spare. "No, really. I'll pay."

"No," she said. "You're driving the entire way, you wouldn't accept petrol money. It's the least I can do."

"It's no trouble," he said, reaching for his wallet.

"Mark, I insist."

At that moment he decided not to further insist on paying the bill out of respect for her independence. "It's really not necessary," he said, "but thank you. I appreciate it."

She narrowed her eyes, but smirked. "Are you embarrassed?"

"What? Why would I be embarrassed?"

"You've gone all pink."

"It was a spicy curry," he said dismissively.

She laughed. "Are you just not used to having a woman pay for your dinner?"

It occurred to him that he was not used to it, and said so. "But I'm not embarrassed by it."

"Is it because I'm so much younger than you are?"

He furrowed his brow. "You make me sound like a doddering old man, one foot in the grave, Grim Reaper in view."

She laughed. "True, true," she said. "I suppose you're not quite old enough to be my dad…" With a grin and a little wink, she added, "An uncle, perhaps."

He couldn't suppress a smile as she handed cash over to the waitress to pay their bill.

As they went back to the car, she asked, "Sure you wouldn't like me to drive?"

He had not had an ale, so he was not sure why she was asking. "I'm sure," he said.

"I mean, you must have arthritis or something that could flare up… maybe gout in your toe… perhaps pain in your shoulder…"

He laughed. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Well, you know, if you need, I do have a driving licence."

"Duly noted."

She chose another compact disc for the rest of the drive and excitedly talked about finishing the term so that she could start life in London. "Tom's going to start looking for flats for me, talking to his friends. I don't think I could afford a flat on my own, but knowing Tom he could find it for me."

"It's nice to have someone looking out for you like that."

"Yeah," she said. She dug into her bag. "I'm gonna read a little, if that's okay."

"Sure," he said. "What do you have there?"

She gave him a stern look as she pulled the book up. He laughed then looked back to the road. It was the book from which he had assigned reading over the break.

"Well at least there will be no question that you actually read it," he said drolly.

"Shush," she said. "Reading."

The music was not so intrusive as to be distracting to her reading, and it provided a lovely soundtrack for the balance of the drive back to Bangor. With every mile passing beneath them he wondered about this… well, friendship is what it was, there was no getting around that. Specifically, he thought about returning to school, resuming the teacher role to her student. He knew with certainty that he would to have to put some distance, metaphorically speaking, between himself and Bridget. He also knew with equal certainty that it was going to be difficult because he truly liked her.

She closed the book just a short distance from Bangor. "There," she said. "All finished. Very interesting."

"I'm glad you thought so," said Mark.

"I found it especially—"

"Ah," he interrupted. "Let's save the discussion for the classroom."

"But—"

"No," he said firmly.

"But it's barbaric," she said, pouting. "Treating those men like that. And women! Especially the women."

The assigned reading was pertaining to apartheid in South Africa. He was inclined to agree, but did not fall for her little trap. "I said no," he said. "You'll just have to wait for Monday morning. Eight a.m."

"Oh, trust me. I haven't forgotten how bloody early that class is." He could sense she was looking at him, but he refrained from turning to her. "I'm sorry I wasn't such good company for this ride."

"You're always good company," he said.

"Now you're just being nice."

"I am not," he said. "Besides, the alternative of riding alone and music-less was a far less attractive prospect."

He could hear her chuckle.

Upon arrival on campus he drove directly to her building. She dismissed needing assistance to her room; he tried not to laugh at the comical vision of her balancing all three of her bags on her own as he got out of the car. "Give me the biggest one. I'll carry it up."

She looked at him sheepishly, then handed the bag to him. "Thanks."

He stayed only a few minutes before departing, then went directly to his place to unpack and rest for a bit. After that, after a quick trip to the market to pick up some groceries to restock his refrigerator, he intended on reviewing his lecture for the upcoming week, including reviewing of midterms, as well as reviewing the plan for the remaining six or so weeks left of the semester.

Monday came all too quickly. It surprised him in a pleasant way that nearly all students were there; it did not surprise him that Bridget was the one student not present when eight o'clock came and went. He cleared his throat and began class, returning the exams and touching upon the questions and concepts that students had most failed to grasp as indicated by their scores.

At quarter past the hour, the door flew open. "Mark, I am so sorry I'm late."

He turned to look at her, disbelieving she had called him by his given name. The class had gone dead silent.

"Excuse me?" he said stonily.

"I said I'm sorry—"

"You will address me as Professor Darcy," he interrupted in that same stern tone, "and I have told you time and again not to be late to class."

She looked startled. "Um—"

"If you are late again," he continued, "you will not be welcome back. Am I clear?"

"Yes," she said quietly. She sank into her customary seat.

He carried on with the lecture, ignoring her raised hand, which was undoubtedly regarding things he had already covered. Her hand sank; she looked sullen. He had a hard time feeling bad when he was simmering with anger. He could only wonder what the other students thought of such impropriety and disrespect.

After class she timidly approached him with, "I'm sorry, Professor Darcy."

He looked up to her, not reining in his annoyance. Her eyes were very glossy, as if she might actually cry. He was not unaffected, but could not show it in front of the other students. "If you have questions about what you missed, see me during office hours."

"I have class during your office hours."

As he looked back to his papers, continuing to transcribe the thought she'd interrupted, he said, "Then see one of your classmates. Thank you." He could see in his peripheral vision that she was walking away. In that moment he realised he still had her midterm, and called, "Bridget?"

She turned, her eyes wide and hopeful. "Yes?"

"Your midterm results." He held it out to her. She looked crestfallen as she accepted it. "If you have any questions, you can see me before class on Wednesday."

"Okay," she said in a pitiful voice.

He returned his attention to his papers, not really seeing them, in order not to prolong the encounter. When he looked up again, she was gone, as were the other students. He sighed, then rose from his chair. He was aggravated that she would resort to such informality in the classroom. He knew she hadn't done it with malicious intent; she was merely too spontaneous and undisciplined to control herself. It was not his fault that he'd had to make up for that.

Inexplicably, though, he also felt bad for her. He felt terrible that he'd had to speak so harshly to her and treat her so callously when she had just begun to consider him a human being.

Wednesday's class was a little less tense. She did not show early to ask questions about her midterm, but neither was she late. The classroom relationship was more or less back to where it had been early on in the term. At the end of the class, she came up to him.

"Yes, Bridget?"

"I know you said to come to class early to ask about this, but it was hard enough just getting here on time," she said.

He fought his smile. "What did you want to ask me?"

To his surprise it was not about the questions she had gotten wrong on the test, but about the foundations of the British legal process, which she either did not know or had incorrectly learned from television. She was doing well enough in the class, but was hampered by the lack of training her classmates had, and it was only now that the subject matter was getting more detailed that he noticed. What she wanted to know was far more than he could explain in just a few minutes after class, and he said so.

"Maybe you could recommend a few books that could help… like, I don't know. _British Law for Dummies_."

At this he actually did smile. "I'll tell you what," he said. "I would be willing to help you outside of class."

"I already told you, I have class during your office hours."

"I mean outside of that, too. I don't mind. I think your having a better understanding of procedure will help you in the long run, and on the final."

She regarded him warily. "Are you sure?"

"Of course," he said. "We can begin next week."

She grinned crookedly. "Thanks."

It was nice to see that the storm had passed.

As he gathered his things up, as Bridget went to leave the classroom, he heard one of the other students speaking to her, a very intelligent but pompous boy called Alistair St James. As they conversed it became clear to Mark that the boy was asking her out for some point over the weekend.

"Oh, that's sweet of you," she said in a tender but firm voice that made it obvious even to Mark that she was refusing.

"Why not? Are you seeing someone?"

"It's none of your business."

"Then go out for drinks with me."

"No," she said sharply. At the boy's surprised expression, her features softened. "There's a party at Tina's on Saturday night, though… you could come to that. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Sure," he said. "See you then." He slunk away. Mark could tell he was disappointed.

She slung her bag up onto her shoulder, then turned and said to Mark, "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," he said in return.

As he walked to his office, he wondered idly if she had in fact started seeing someone since they'd spoken on Easter about Tom not being her boyfriend. It wasn't the sort of thing they would have discussed in depth during their conversations, and she was certainly cute and bubbly enough to be attracting men. Then with a furrowed brow he wondered why he should even care. Her personal life was no business of his, either.

…

At the end of the following Monday's class they arranged to meet at four o'clock in his office for review of the basic tenets of the English legal system. "Thanks again for doing this," she said. "I think it'll help a lot."

"You're welcome," he said. "See you at four. Or shortly thereafter."

She chuckled.

As four o'clock came and passed, he did not interrupt what he was working on; he knew better than to expect punctuality. At ten past the hour, there was a rapping on his door. He got up to answer it.

"Hi." She stood there looking as she always did in her jacket and her bag slung over her shoulder, except in her hands were two covered paper drink cups. "I brought these."

"That was very thoughtful of you. Thanks." He took the one she handed towards him. "What is it?"

"Coffee."

"Is that a hint to your expectations?" he said in jest. "Need to keep awake?"

"Of course not," she said. "You could probably make the alphabet interesting."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," he said.

He took a seat at his desk and she sat across from him, opening a notebook and taking pen in hand.

"So," he said, taking a sip from the coffee. It was black, and very rich and freshly brewed. He pondered how she'd known he liked it black. "Let's start by discussing what type of legal system England and Wales uses."

"Parliamentary," she said.

He smiled. "Well, no, that's the legislative body that amends and proposes law. I'm talking the system of law."

She screwed up her face. "I'm not sure I know."

He waited a beat to allow her time to guess. When it became obvious she wasn't going to, he said, "It's actually referred to as English law."

"You're teasing me," she said, pursing her lips.

"I'm not," he said. "It's widely used as the basis of common law, as opposed to civil or pluralist law."

"What's the difference?"

"Common law is… well, think of common sense. It's based on precedent as it applies to the facts before the judge. For example, did you know that there is no actual statute making murder illegal?"

Her mouth dropped open. "But people go to prison all the time for murder."

"And the reason they do is because it is a common law crime. Judgements are rendered per the authority of the courts' previous decisions."

"Wow," she said. "And civil law?"

"Is written into a collection of laws which is assembled into a codex. Judgements are made by referring to the codex, and not determined by judges. It's inspired by Roman law."

"Who uses civil law?"

"France, for example."

"Oh."

With that he went on to explain the framing of common law, the other major differences to civil law, the variants on and hybrids of both systems, and other points of importance as pertained to class discussion. Before he knew it an hour and a half had passed.

"My head's starting to hurt a little," she said as she wrote down the last of what he'd said.

"Well, that's a good sign," he said. "It means you're understanding it, at least a little."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, if it had gone straight over your head you'd be blissfully unaffected."

She laughed. "True." She set the pen down. "What's next?"

"How about we break for the day," he said, "and tomorrow we can meet and talk about court process and procedure in England."

"Break already?"

"Look at the time."

She glanced to her watch. "Wow," she said. "I hadn't realised… well, I was right. You do make this interesting."

He smiled and said, "I'm glad you think so."

She tucked her notebook and pen back into her bag. "Thanks again, Mark." As she said it, she realised her slipup at once, and looked mortified. "Oh, I mean, Professor Darcy."

"You're welcome," he said. After a moment of consideration, he added, "Do you understand why I must insist upon—?"

"Yes," she interrupted, "and I'm sorry. I didn't do it on purpose. I _don't_."

He nodded; it was as he thought. "As long as you understand I didn't shout for the sake of shouting."

"You didn't really shout," she said with a smirk. "It hurt my feelings a little, but I deserved it."

"Just be more mindful in future," he said.

She nodded. "See you tomorrow."

The next tutoring session went as smoothly and as quickly as the first, and with as much progress made if not more. She'd brought coffee and biscuits, and they did not break until after six. She brought the chair around so they could review side by side the legal tomes he had dragged out. By the end of it she was asking about certain courtroom situations she'd seen in television shows, all of which were ridiculous and explained her previous comments and point of view prior to the review.

"Granted," he said, "it's an American show, but I can guarantee you that court cases don't always conclude with a surprise witness and confession that proves the defendant was innocent, like they do on _Perry Mason_ or _Law and Order_."

She laughed, tucking an unruly lock of hair behind her ear, with which she had been battling the entire time and losing. "'Don't always'? Does that mean they sometimes do?"

"Not in my experience," he said. "Not once."

"That's too bad," she said. "I'm sure things would be a lot more exciting sometimes if that were the case."

"I can think of a few sessions during which a courtroom outburst would have been a welcome distraction."

She chuckled again, then said in her best posh and stuffy voice, drawing her chin to her chest, hair falling forward again, "'Your Honour! We demand the witness take back the mean things he said about Man U!'"

At that he laughed.

She added in that same voice, "'Particularly when Arsenal is bollocks!'"

Laughing still, he said, pushing that lock behind her ear for her, "You're incorrigible."

At that moment a third voice sounded.

"Mark, you're still here? Want to go—"

It was Patrick entering the office, stopping short when he saw that Mark was not alone.

"Hi, Professor Baldwin," Bridget said brightly, stuffing her papers into her bag.

"Bridget," he said, looking from her to Mark. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No," said Mark. "I was just giving Bridget some tutoring in legal procedure."

"Ah."

"I have to go," said Bridget. "Thanks again, Professor Darcy. This is all going to help a lot."

As she left, Patrick levelled a very serious gaze at Mark, one that frankly startled him a little. "What's really going on?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I overhear things that students talk about, Mark," he said, "and it would seem that most of them think Bridget's more than just a bit of a teacher's pet."

He furrowed his brows.

"Now, I know her, and I know you, and I'm sure nothing's going on—"

"What would possibly be going on?"

"_Mark_. You drive her home and back—"

"We come from the same town," Mark interrupted.

Patrick continued, "She calls you 'Mark' in class, tells other boys that it's none of their business if she's seeing someone… you being seen going up to her room… and now private tutoring sessions with you sitting _very_ close to her and playing with her hair…."

Mark could not find the words to speak at first. "Patrick. She called me 'Mark' _once_ in class, I was _not_ playing with her hair, and there's nothing about any of those other things that's remotely improper. Are you suggesting otherwise?" he asked.

"I'm suggesting no such thing," he said. "When you take all of those things together, though… you have to understand how it might look to others. She's doing very well in your class, better than some of the law course students."

He knew what Patrick was suggesting. "I offered the lessons because she's at a disadvantage due to a lack of legal training."

"Mark, I know your intentions are good," said Patrick, "but it does have the appearance of preferential treatment. It does her no favours if everyone thinks she's getting good grades because you like her… or you're involved with her."

"_What?_" Mark exploded, even as he thought about what his colleagues had said in the pub so long ago. "That is ridiculous—she's just a kid."

"I'm just telling you what I hear, and what I know." After a pause, he added, "At the beginning of last term, after she chucked her last boyfriend, he very nastily spread rumours about how… easy she is. It took weeks for that to settle down, but people don't forget these things."

He was incensed at this unnamed ex-boyfriend for saying such horrible things about her, but quelled it for the time being. The incident in the pub with Alan and her refusal of Alistair's date suddenly took on a whole new dimension. He sighed in frustration.

"Look, Mark," Patrick went on. "I don't want this to hurt you, either. Even though you and I both know she has no ulterior motives in being nice to her professor… allegations of an affair with a student in your class would be very damaging for you, too."

He agreed, but did not care about himself because he knew he was not guilty of anything; Patrick clearly thought the same. He was really only concerned for her reputation.

"I appreciate you coming to me with this, and I'm glad that you know nothing wrong has happened," he said. "I will be extra aware in future."

"Good. So," Patrick said. "Let's go grab some dinner."

Mark offered a smile and nodded. Throughout dinner that night, though, he was distracted by thoughts of Patrick's observations and what he had said. Patrick seemed to sense this distraction, but did not press him to talk about it, for which he was grateful.

He made it through dinner and with a cheery goodnight he went home. There, the silence and solitude of his rented abode caused his thoughts to turn inward again, and brought him to a shocking conclusion:

Patrick was right. He did think of her as more than just a student. He liked spending time with her, he liked talking to her. He liked her, and more than he should or was proper given their relationship as teacher and student.

Her work, her grades, were all based on merit. He would hate to think that anyone thought otherwise, that she was aware of his fondness for her and was using it to her best advantage. He was resolute: he was going to have to stop it from continuing, both to protect her reputation and to protect himself from inappropriate feelings. He resolved to do this firmly and absolutely.

…

The following morning Bridget was not late for a change, though she clearly had stayed up too late the previous night, because she looked very tired and was obviously distracted. He barked her name, startling her bolt upright.

"Yes, sorry," she said.

Not more than a few minutes later, he asked her a question pertaining to his lecture on southeast Asia. She did not reply. He said her name again.

"What?"

"The answer to my question."

"Um," she said. "I think the answer you're looking for is South Africa."

A murmur of laughter rippled through the class, which infuriated him. "If you can't stay focused," he thundered, "please leave."

She furrowed her brow. "I said I was sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix your sleep deprivation and lack of attention," he said gruffly. "Go."

"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed," she muttered.

"_Go_," he said, "and for inconveniencing this class and myself, a one-page essay due by this time tomorrow on the importance of a good night's sleep."

"That doesn't have anything to do with—"

"Two pages," he said.

He heard another round of suppressed laughter, which seemed to anger her even more. She gritted her teeth, packed her book bag and headed towards the door. "I'm not a child," she said, "and you're practically making me write lines."

"Three pages," he said.

Without another word, she glared at him, then left.

The rest of the class went off without a hitch. In fact, the other students seemed far more attentive than was the norm. As he returned to his office after the class, his thoughts were scattered. He told himself that if any other student were to have done what she'd done during his lecture, he would have done the same… but he was not so sure it was true.

_Yes, I would have_, he thought, reaffirming to himself that he had done the right thing. After all, one could simply not afford inattention during court proceedings.

In unguarded moments, though, he found himself reflecting on time spent in her company; how she had so frequently made him laugh; how she had so spontaneously comforted him when he revealed the pain caused by his ex-wife's infidelity; how much duller the class had been without her there that day. She was such a refreshing change of pace from the women he had known in his life in London—so different from his ex-wife—that he had, against his better judgment, let her get past his defences.

Like now.

He turned his head quickly away to focus on his work again, exhaling sharply. _In this way lies madness_, he thought, cursing Patrick for bringing this to his attention. But it was better to know to be able to take steps to counteract it, wasn't it?

He grabbed a sheet of A4 and scrawled a note apologising for not being available during office hours that day. He needed to take a walk to get his thoughts sorted out, and walk he did until he got to the Menai Strait and could go no further.

It was chilly, cold enough to see his breath. He gazed out and over to Anglesey, the water between them glittering in the late morning sun. The solitude, however, afforded not so much a sorting out of thoughts than an obsessing on them. Why was she so tired she was falling asleep in class? Had she succumbed to Alan's or even Alistair's advances? Why did he feel the need to know? Why should he even care? She was an adult and could sleep with whomever she liked.

The thought made him feel a little dizzy as he remembered all at once what it had been like, even for so short a time, to have had her in his embrace, her bright eyes shining up to him in her attempt to make him feel better; and that smile of hers on so many occasions, so easily coaxed and such a pleasure to see, her lips pink and smooth. He imagined how silky they would be against his own—

The very thought startled him so much that he gasped. This was wrong. He could not have these thoughts about her, so much younger than he, daughter of his parents' friends, a student in his class. He told himself that this attraction to her was nothing but a rebound, the wounded ego resulting from his failed marriage reacting to a beautiful younger woman giving him the slightest bit of attention…. What else could explain that he was suddenly fantasising about kissing her?

He shoved his hands into his pockets as the wind kicked up and rustled through his hair, causing him to shiver. He knew it was time to head back through campus, to his car and to his house. When he arrived home, although it was barely noon, he poured himself a glass of wine and drank it much too quickly.

He would just have to keep his resolve firmly in place. No special treatment, no undue attention. Most importantly, she could never know he had these feelings.

She was not there the following morning for the Thursday session, but sitting on the desk in the room in which he held his lectures was what appeared to be printed pages stapled in the top left corner. It was Bridget's required three-page essay on the importance of a good night's sleep, which consisted of the following sentence, one word to each page:

_It's very important._

Technically it fit the requirements of the assignment, but rather than be amused by her efforts, he felt a sense of melancholy. It was so like her to have responded in this way, and it only served to highlight both why he liked her as much as he did, and why he should not.

Somehow he made it through the rest of the week and the weekend. When he spoke to his mother on Sunday, nothing at all about the conversation betrayed the turmoil he felt inside over Bridget. He was not looking forward to class on Monday at all, evidenced by the pit of fire in his gut.

On that dreaded Monday, Bridget was not late, was not sleeping at her desk, but also said nothing to him that did not relate to class. He did not know which he disliked more: her attention, or lack of it. After class she approached him, asking only, "I take it you got my three-page essay."

Looking at her with an unblinking gaze, he responded with only a curt, "Yes."

"And?" She was clearly trying to provoke a response.

"You clearly know the difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law."

She set her jaw firmly. "I suppose you'll make me rewrite it."

"No," he said. "Instead, I'd like you to write a one-thousand word essay on the letter versus the spirit of the law, since you seem to understand it so well."

She frowned at him.

He added, "Beginning of class tomorrow will suffice."

"Tomorrow? But I have a paper to finish for my literature class."

"Then you'd better get to work on it straightaway."

At this she actually looked a little upset, but did not say anything more.

As she turned to leave, he saw fit to add, knowing her propensity for creatively bending the parameters of an assignment, "Oh, and one-thousand is the minimum. You are not to suddenly stop mid-sentence once you've hit a thousand words."

She looked back and glared at him before heading out the door.

It gave him no pleasure to do these things, but he had to curtail the rampant liberties she had taken with his patience and good graces. Still, as that fire flared in her eyes, he could not help the flush of adrenalin that raced through him; how spirited she was, how attractive that was to him despite all of the rational reasons why it should not be.

He slept fitfully that night; he made his coffee the following morning that much stronger. He ensured he was early to the classroom in the hopes that he'd catch her if she turned up to drop it off again, but the paper was already present on the desk like it had been the week before; the only thing he could think was that she must have dropped it off late the previous night. It gave him the time to read through her essay before students arrived. The essay was extremely well organised, researched and written. He wondered if the legal community hadn't lost out when she'd chosen the English course. He put the papers into his briefcase just as the first students filtered in, thankful for the normalcy of the Tuesday-Thursday sessions.

He should have recognised it as a calm before the storm.


	5. Chapter 5

**Into the Fire**  
5 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 5,149 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.  
Warning: I should mention that there is a reference to an 'off-screen' event that has the potential to be a trigger for anyone who has ever been physically attacked.

Sorry for the tardiness. Went for a walk in the lovely late summer evening sun. I made some additions but didn't count in the new words. Oh well.

* * *

**Chapter 5.**

On Wednesday, as class began, Bridget was not present. As he began his lecture, he could only think that he would have to kick her out of the class, or else the other students would have no respect for him and would not take future warnings to heart. He was both angry and anguished at the thought.

She came in at half past the hour. She looked exhausted and slightly unkempt, dark circles under her eyes, but at least had the decency to look humbled.

"Miss Jones," he said, cutting himself off in mid-speech, "do not bother to sit down."

"But there's a really good reason—" she began.

"I do not care to hear your excuses. Please leave."

"But don't you want to know—"

"You have had adequate warning about being late again. I do not make idle promises. Go," he boomed.

She stood there, bag still on shoulder, eyes filling with tears she seemed determined not to shed. "Threats, more like," she said through clenched teeth. "Heartless bastard." Her voice was raspy and quiet, yet still loud enough to hear. She then left the classroom.

The silence afterwards was resounding and uncomfortable; the students seemed to regard him with something akin to astonishment. Perhaps this would kill any rumours of inappropriate behaviour on their part once and for all. He cleared his throat, then resumed his lecture. He could only reflect on how it had pained him to do what he'd done, but it was for her own good.

The enormity of his mistake would become evident when he overheard some of his departmental colleagues speaking as he passed through the building to get to his office after class.

"Terrible, just terrible," said Danny. "A small town like this, you'd think this sort of thing wouldn't happen here. You feel safe. Protected. Particularly on campus."

This caught Mark's attention.

"Dangerous people can be found anywhere," said Rob. "Poor girl. Must have been quite a scare for her."

"What happened?" he asked.

"She's all right, thank goodness," said Danny, "but apparently last night she was walking from one residence hall to another and was grabbed from behind and pulled off of the walkway. Thankfully an alert group on their way home from the pub saw the grab and scared the attacker off before any real damage was done."

"That's terrible," he said, thinking of Bridget's own safety as she was wont to walk around campus alone at night. "Did they catch the man responsible?"

"No, but apparently she knows who it was. Last I heard the police were going to speak to him."

"Mark!"

It was Patrick. His presence and his appearance startled Mark; Patrick did not regularly appear amongst the law professors, least of all looking as ragged as he did.

"Did you hear? Oh my God," continued his friend.

"About the attack? Yes, only just. So terrible."

Patrick brought his brows together. "So she didn't turn up? I heard she insisted on going to classes as usual."

"What?"

Patrick stared at him. "_Bridget_, Mark. She was the girl who got attacked."

He felt his knees start to go out under him as a wave of dizziness washed over him, but he steadied himself against the doorjamb. His heart began to race. "Oh my God," he said, his voice the barest trace of a whisper. "I didn't know." He looked to Patrick. "She did show up to class. I kicked her out for being late."

"You _what?_"

"She was late so frequently…" he began, then stopped, his thoughts racing. Eventually he finished: "I'd told her if she was late one more time she was out."

"Jesus, Mark." Patrick looked angry.

"It's not like she got a chance to tell me what happened," Mark said.

"You just… summarily dismissed her?" asked Danny, his eyes wide as Rob, equally incredulous, asked:

"You didn't let her explain?"

"I screwed up," Mark admitted.

"Bloody right you did."

"I'll fix it," he said. "I'll go and find her and apologise."

"She's due in my class in half an hour," said Patrick, "but _I_ intend on excusing her for the day."

He accompanied Patrick back to his classroom. Students had begun to arrive and were milling around speaking socially until the two professors appeared, at which point they stopped to look, particularly to look at Mark. He wondered if word had spread about what he had done that morning to the poor victim of an attack, and felt even guiltier.

Bridget was not present.

As the minutes ticked away, he wondered if she would come at all, until just a minute before the hour of eleven. That was when she came through the door. She took one look at Mark and froze.

"Into the hall, if you don't mind," Patrick said in a gentle voice. "Class, we'll just be a few minutes. I'm sure you understand."

Once they were all in the hall, Patrick closed the door behind them, then looked pointedly at Mark, who took it as a cue to speak:

"Bridget," he said. "I'm sorry about this morning. I had no idea—"

"Of course you didn't," she interrupted furiously in hushed tones, tears suddenly flowing down her cheeks, "because you refused to let me explain. Well, sod off, Professor Darcy. I don't need your class, so take it and shove it up your arse, if there's room with the stick there."

He was rendered momentarily speechless. "Bridget," he said gently, "I understand you're very upset, and rightly so."

"I said shove it," she hissed, angrily wiping her cheeks dry. "I thought we were… well, at least friendly, if not friends, and you've turned out to be a—"

"Heartless bastard," he supplied. "I should have let you explain. I am so sorry."

"Yes, well, how many times have I said that to you and it's fallen on deaf ears?" She sniffed, then looked to Patrick. "Professor Baldwin, I think we have a class to start."

Patrick said, "Bridget, really, you don't have to stay. I'm excusing you—"

"No, I want to," she said, shooting Mark a defiant look. "It will keep my mind off of things."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes."

With that she reached for the doorknob, tugged open the door and stalked back into the classroom. Patrick looked to Mark with a very grave expression, then followed her, closing the door once inside.

He stood out there for a moment or two more before departing for his office. He buried himself in work, catching up on grading essays and holding his office hours. No students showed. Towards the end Danny came in to let him know he'd heard an arrest had been made. "Ex-boyfriend, apparently," Danny added. "Glad they caught him."

"So am I," murmured Mark.

Once in the car, he thought briefly of trying to speak to her again that day, but ultimately thought it pointless. Bridget made it crystal clear that she did not want to speak to him, and he could hardly blame her. He had handled everything about this situation, everything to do with _her_, very badly. He hoped she would, once things settled down, return to class.

…

She did not turn up on the following Monday or Wednesday. Mark was beside himself; he did not want either an incomplete registered on the course, or a failing grade… nor did want the possibility that not passing the class would hold her back from her long-anticipated graduation.

After class on Wednesday, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

He put up a sign again apologising for not keeping office hours, then went to Patrick's classroom in order to wait for the students to emerge at the end of what he knew to be the class that Bridget was in. She was among the last to leave, and when she saw him her expression went completely flat.

"Hello, Bridget," he said.

"Professor Darcy," she said coolly.

"How are you?" he said. "I mean, how are you coping with—"

"I'm fine," she said.

He exhaled, wounded but not surprised at the curtness of her answer. "I was hoping to speak with you," he said.

She blinked, then sighed and nodded. "You can walk me back towards my building."

He waited until they had gotten outside to start talking. "Words cannot express how very sorry I am for how I treated you," he said. "It was very wrong of me and I would do anything to take it back if I only could."

She turned to look at him. "Well, I _was_ late again," she said sardonically. "You did what you said you'd do."

"Life isn't black and white, and I know that. I was just so…" He trailed off. There was no way around it. "You deserve to know the truth, why I had to do what I'd said I'd do."

"What truth?"

"Professor Baldwin came to me with a concern," he began quietly. It would be a fine line to walk, to say enough to express his concern, but not so much that she would know his feelings. "That you and I might be engaged in… an inappropriate relationship."

She stopped in her tracks, her eyes huge as saucers. "What?"

"That I might be giving you preferential treatment," he continued. "The long-distance drives, the fact that you called me by my given name, the extra lessons—"

Her laughter interrupted him. "Are you kidding me?"

He shook his head; clearly she found the idea outrageous, if not repulsive.

"But you're…" she began. He waited for her to finish it with 'so old', but she did not. "…my teacher. I mean, we're friends too…" Her face clouded over. "I mean, I thought we were."

"We are," he said. "Bridget, you have to understand that you are the only student with which I have any sort of interaction with outside of class, any sort of friendship. I just couldn't have anyone think you were doing well because of that alone. When I say you're my most promising student, I'm not saying that because of that friendship, but because you really are."

She blinked in disbelief. "I'm your most promising student?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Even with those pretentious, brown-nosing proto-barristers Alistair and Rupert?"

"Yes," he affirmed, holding back a laugh. "Sadly, though, you are also my most undisciplined one."

The corner of her mouth pulled to the side in a sheepish expression.

"I was trying so hard to get you to the level I think you're capable of achieving that I didn't stop to think how it might look to the outside world. You can't afford any doubt on your scholarly abilities—"

"I've made it this far without you around," she quipped.

"That's just it," he said. "If there's any doubt, anyone can look back over your transcript and wonder if you really earned those marks."

She pulled her lips in.

"And as for me, well, it would be professional suicide to have even the whiff of a rumour of impropriety with someone over whom I hold this kind of power."

She looked down.

He continued, "In retrospect, perhaps I swung too hard in the opposite direction, and was harsher on you than you deserved." She looked up again.

"I know I didn't exactly make it easy for you," she said. "If I hadn't been late so many times before, you never would have thought I was crying wolf."

"Please consider returning to class," he said. "You've only missed a couple of sessions and it would be easy to bring you up to speed."

She seemed to be mulling the offer. "I didn't mean what I said."

"What?"

"About the stick."

He had to rifle through his memories to recall what she meant, and when he did he began to laugh.

"And about not needing the class," she added. "I've very much enjoyed it."

"So you'll come back?"

She nodded.

He felt an overwhelming sense of relief. "Great. Wonderful. Perhaps… perhaps we can arrange to review, maybe today at four?"

"Sure but… what about… suspicions of impropriety?"

"You need the review, after your ordeal and missing class," he said. "If anyone wants to try to read something into that they can sod off."

She smiled. "I'll see you at four."

As she went to walk away and into the building itself, he called her name; she turned around. "Yes?"

He strode closer to her again. "How are you, really?"

She smiled wanly. "I'm still having nightmares," she confessed. "But it's getting better."

"I'm sorry to hear it," he said.

"It helps knowing he's been picked up." With another, more light-hearted smile, she turned again and went into the building.

He thought she might come bearing coffees, possibly biscuits, so he decided to pop into the market and pick up a little consolation for her in the form of the most expensive, decadent chocolate bar they had. He debated a pint of ice cream, but knew her penchant for turning up late, so opted against it.

She was on time for once, and as predicted she came with a couple of paper cups from the coffee bar. "Hi," she said. "Hope this isn't too much… well, you know."

"No, I appreciate it. Actually, I have something for you."

She knit her brows. "What?"

He walked over to his desk and picked up the chocolate bar, then brought it to her with a sheepish smile. "To make up for being such a heartless bastard."

She laughed. "I've already accepted your apology."

He shrugged. "Well, if you don't want it…"

"I didn't say that." She took it from him and unwrapped the paper, taking a big bite. "Oh, lord," she said as soon as she could. "That's amazing."

He considered that the treat was, in hindsight, not his best idea when he realised that the sight of her enjoying the chocolate was on the verge of leading his thoughts astray. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad you like it. Well. Shall we begin?"

He sat behind the desk; she, across from him. Between jotting down notes, she sipped on her coffee and took small bites from the chocolate bar, as if parsing it out to make it last that much longer. As he expected, she picked up on the missing material very quickly, only needing clarification on one or two of the stickier legal terms he used. He made it through the previous Wednesday's material and got most of the way into that past Monday's when she yawned. Only then did it occur to him to glance at the clock. It was six-thirty.

"Sorry."

"No, it's all right, I didn't mean to go on this long." He rose. "We can carry on tomorrow. Same time, if that's convenient."

"Sure. Thanks." She stood, put her notepad and pen back into her bag, then turned to face him with a smile. "I kind of appreciate your not asking."

"About what?"

"About Ben."

"Who's—" As he asked it, he stopped short. Ben must have been the ex-boyfriend. "Sorry." She laughed. "If you want to talk about it, though, I'm willing to listen."

She glanced away, and after a few moments began to speak. "We'd kind of had a flirtation all last second term. Over the summer we talked pretty frequently on the phone. He even came to visit once, to come to the summer picnic at the Alconburys'. My mum loved him. When we returned to Bangor in the autumn we decided to start seeing each other for real. Dating." She looked at him again. "He seemed to think that he was entitled to put his hand up my skirt after one such date. I told him to get lost, and I broke it off."

Mark already knew this story, knew where it was going. "I'm sorry to hear that he tried to take advantage of you."

"He didn't take the news well," she said. She bit on her lower lip, then, after a moment of contemplation, she said, "He started telling everyone I was a slut. Even though I did _not_ sleep with him."

Mark felt his anger rising. "I'm sorry."

"He was all sweetness and charm when others were around," she said. "The moment he had me alone… warning bells started going off. I thought it best to get out right away."

"It looks like you were right to do so."

"Lesson learned. Follow instincts." She was trying to put on a brave face, but it quickly deflated. She sniffed; he saw a tear trail down her cheek, which she brushed quickly away. "My mother doesn't know why we broke up, or… about what Ben tried to do. I've been too embarrassed to tell Mum or Dad what happened."

"I don't think that's something you should keep from them. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But all it would do is make them even more protective of me," she said, "or to make my dad want to find Ben and bollock him."

"The latter option doesn't sound so bad to me."

She smiled.

In a slightly more serious tone, he added, "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Promise me you won't say anything to them," she said.

He nodded. He had faith that she would make the right choice in the end. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

They exited the office then the building. Without a word from either, he continued walking with her all the way to her residence hall. She was not in danger of a second attack and it was not yet nightfall, but it just felt like the right thing to do given their prior conversation. The fact that she did not protest at all seemed to indicate to him that she was still a little more rattled than she wanted to admit.

She climbed up onto the step, turned back to look at him. He said, "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

With a small smile, she nodded, then went inside.

He didn't walk away immediately, just stood there in silent contemplation, feeling like he was in the process of losing all reason. Why was he doing this to himself? He was fighting an attraction to a girl—_woman_—far too young for him and under his tutelage; why was he bouncing in the opposite direction, back to almost too much attention again?

It was because of the attack scare, he knew; the news of that had been like a physical blow to him. He was still going to have to remain at a professional distance, but showing concern at least would not be thought of as unusual.

He considered also exactly why the news of the attack had become that much more devastating to him when he learned that she was the victim. He already knew, though. He cared more for her than he should, and that scared him a little.

…

Through the remaining two weeks of term Mark felt that he was able to keep things on an even keel. Bridget returned to class up to speed on the subject material; with the tutelage on the English system of law she was holding her own more than ever before. Other students may have gotten better scores on tests overall, but she really seemed to fundamentally understand the core concepts better than most. It was for this reason he still considered her his best student. He did not believe the concern he showed for her well-being was any different than anyone else's, certainly it was not more.

He had not been as busy in Bangor as he was in his day-to-day life in London, and while he looked forward to returning home, he also dreaded returning to that colder, emptier life. Even though he had spent a great deal of time on his own in Bangor, the friends he had made amongst his colleagues were warmer, more open, and their actions not ascribed to ulterior motives. In London they tended to be a little more ambitious and shallow.

By the tenth of June he had packed his things and was intending on being on the road back to London after lunch that afternoon. The term itself had ended the prior week with a final exam on the last day of class, but he'd had work, namely exam grading, to catch up on after that. Bridget had excitedly told him that she would indeed be graduating, and that her graduation ceremony was the second Monday of July with a departmental reception afterwards. He marked it in his diary, and wondered if he could, as visiting lecturer, attend without needing to take up a guest ticket.

"What, you're not attending the Law ceremony that Friday?" said Patrick with a smirk as he told him over lunch of his prospective plans to attend the English department's graduation ceremony.

"To be honest, I'm more invested in Bridget's graduation," he said, then added at Patrick's look, "being a friend of the family and all."

"Hm," he said. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

It felt a bit wrong to allow Patrick the misapprehension that he had known Bridget much longer than just that past New Year's, but he allowed it all the same.

Patrick continued, "Well, if your contract ending means you can't get a ticket of your own, you can just come with me, and crash at my place if you want."

"That'd be terrific. Thanks."

With a friendly hug they parted, and Mark was soon on his way out of town. Bridget had already gone south; her parents had come for her and her things the weekend after the semester had ended. Into the CD player he popped the disc she had made for him. In some ways it was like having her company, and it made the drive seem that much shorter.

He wondered how she was doing in London; he knew of her intention to move there and stay with Tom after starting her new job a couple of weeks after graduation, but did not know what her plans were between now and then, or exactly when she actually began working. Now that he no longer saw her, he found he missed her updates.

At this thought, it occurred to him that she didn't actually have to be out of his life just because she was no longer in his class; they had declared themselves friends, had they not? It also occurred to him that since she was no longer in his class, he was no longer bound by teacher-student rules. He was not sure if that made him feel better or worse. If by some strange twist of fate she not only had feelings for him but chose to act on them, what on earth would her parents think? What would his own parents think? That he was having a mid-life crisis far too early? Would they be wrong?

He was making a mountain out of a molehill, creating unneeded worry in his mind when she had already made it pretty plain she found the very concept appalling.

…

Re-entry into London life was a little rougher than he was expecting. He was asked to take on three easy cases (as easy as they tended to get, anyway) and two more challenging ones. He was sure to clear taking some time for another trip north for the graduation in July. He also mentioned to his mother that he was planning on doing so.

"That's terribly thoughtful of you, Mark," she said. "Considering how like fire and ice the two of you were at the Turkey Curry Buffet, you and Bridget must have forged a nice little relationship during your term there."

"Relationship?" he asked.

Elaine chuckled. "Teacher-student relationship, Mark. You're not the sort to rob cradles."

"Oh, yes, of course," he said, wondering why he'd felt so suddenly defensive. "We got on surprisingly well."

"I'm glad for that. I've heard all about her friends from Pam—irresponsible and too inexperienced in general. Now she lives in London, young girl all on her own in a big city. Pam and Colin are understandably concerned. If she needed to I'm sure she could count on you."

"Of course," he murmured. "I've met her friend Tom. He seems—" Mark paused, reflecting that the only thing he knew about Tom was that he was a drag performer. "—a little more mature."

"Oh, Tom is the one that Pam always says should just be her proper boyfriend already, I think."

"Mother," said Mark, "Tom is not interested in women, and Pam knows it."

Elaine chuckled. "Pam failed to mention that part to me."

"Pam's in a sort of denial about it, or so says Bridget."

"That doesn't surprise me. She's got a strange fixation about the vicar, too."

Mark laughed; he knew precisely about which one she was speaking.

A return to the office also meant a return to heavy-handed attempts to enquire into his personal life. He should have expected it, but deep down he was not surprised.

During his first week back, Natasha appeared in his office ostensibly regarding a case they had worked on in the past that brought their specialities together, but it was not long before she was careering off-topic and asking about how he was doing since his return.

"Of course we're all delighted that you've returned," said Natasha, perching on the edge of his desk, reminding him oddly of when Bridget had done so. "Just wasn't the same without you around."

"Thank you," he said politely.

"A few weeks ago there was a special charity performance of _Othello_ that I braved on my own but I think you would have loved to have seen. Just after you returned to Bangor." She examined her fingernails thoughtfully. "Must have been dreadfully dull up there," she said. "Can't imagine there was a shred of civilisation."

"On the contrary," he said, "I was not at all starved for culture or company."

She cocked an eyebrow. "I find it difficult to believe that a man like you could be satisfied there."

"Believe it," he said. "The work was rewarding and I formed new friendships and renewed others. It doesn't hurt that it's absolutely beautiful there."

She still looked sceptical. "Clearly you need reminding what London has to offer you. Come with me tonight, Mark. Art opening at the Saatchi. Dust off your tuxedo and become reacquainted with society."

Against his better judgment, he agreed, reasoning it would not hurt to do some networking now that he was back. From the moment he arrived, though, he wished he had not gone. Natasha hung onto his arm and simpered and smiled as they made their way through the crowd. The level of artifice was almost more than he could stand. With each brief but tactically prudent conversation, it occurred to him exactly of whom the more obnoxious of his students had reminded him. Not even the champagne could save the night.

"I'm so glad you came," Natasha cooed as they left the gallery. It was a very warm June night, and while he had on his tuxedo jacket, her arms were bare and her skin gleamed in the moonlight. She was quick to claim his elbow again and lean into him; he was sure she would claim she was cold if he asked, so he didn't even bother. "I have very much missed you, Mark."

He said nothing. He had not particularly missed the way she fawned over him.

As they arrived to the car, she turned and faced him. In her heels she was nearly as tall as he was. "You've been very quiet, Mark," she said in an almost scolding tone. As she spoke again, her voice was almost petulant. "Why aren't you talking to me? What aren't you telling me?"

He didn't think it would have been at all polite or proper to say what he was thinking, so instead he just offered an excuse about it having been a long day, that the champagne had caught up to him, and that he was tired.

"A likely story," she said with a smirk. "Why don't you join me for a nightcap, tell me what's on your mind? Doesn't have to be anything but coffee. Just got an excellent Ethiopian roast—"

"I'll have to pass," he interrupted, "but thanks for the invite."

"Mark," she said a bit more firmly, stepping forward, trapping him between the car and her. "You seemed interested enough before your trip." She leaned forward and into him; not only did she try to kiss him, but her fingers pressed most insistently into the fly of his trousers.

"Natasha," he boomed, pushing her away, making her stumble backwards but not fall, though a small part of him wished she had landed on her bony backside for a much-needed humbling. "I am not interested now."

Her hair had mussed slightly with the sudden motion; she brought her hand up to calmly smooth it down. "I see," she said coldly.

"I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea in agreeing to come with you tonight."

She set her jaw firmly. "My fault for misunderstanding. I should have realised some little backwoods tart would have charmed the pants off of you. Easy meat."

"There is no one, least of all a 'backwoods tart'," he said. "I'd say I'm surprised you'd even say that, but I'm not." He turned to open the car door, and as he did the driver turned to look at him. "Good night," he said to Natasha.

"But Markee—"

He did not care that they had arrived together. He was not about to share a back seat with her for any length of time, and he absolutely hated when she called him that, so he was feeling even less generous than usual. "Minicabs are plentiful. I have no doubt you will find one," he muttered. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He felt a sullen mood overtake him as the car moved through the streets of London towards his home. There were some things he had not at all missed about London.

The house seemed that much quieter and emptier when he arrived, his footsteps echoing in the foyer as he came in. He shed his jacket then loosened the tie, making his way upstairs to his bedroom. He threw the jacket down on the chair by the window, then sat heavily on the bed to untie his shoes and remove them before setting them aside. He sighed. _Might as well get ready for bed_, he thought.

He had a moment of weakness while brushing his teeth, thinking whether it would have actually been so wrong to have succumbed to Natasha's advances; he wondered if the high moral ground leading to such pervasive loneliness was really worth it. As he washed his face and caught his own gaze in the mirror, he chastised himself. It had not been worth it in the past.


	6. Chapter 6

**Into the Fire**  
6 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 7,315 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 6.**

June passed by in the blink of an eye. He was looking forward to the short breather away from London again, to see Patrick again and to enjoy the northern Welsh town in the glory of true summer. He decided to drive up on the Saturday prior to the ceremony. The ride up was uneventful; he stopped again for curry in Birmingham before making the rest of the trip. Patrick seemed surprised at his arrival; he was dressed in a crisp dress shirt and trousers as if he were getting ready to go out, was in fact fixing the knot on his tie as the door swung open.

"Mark!"

"Sorry," Mark said. "I thought I told you I was coming up today."

"No, I'm sorry," he said. "You probably told me and I forgot."

"It's not a problem, is it?"

"No, no," he said. "I just… well, I have a date tonight."

Mark offered a smile, but could only think of the prospect of trying to find a free room the weekend before graduation ceremonies were to begin. "That's great," Mark said.

His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, however, because Patrick laughed. "I'm not going to make you sleep in your car," he said. "Come on in."

Mark grinned, then brought his bag into the house.

"I'm surprised," said Patrick as he led Mark to the spare room.

"About what?"

"When my colleagues heard I had a date, they immediately asked me who I was taking out."

"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to," he said. "I know how much I hate it when I get nagged about my personal life like that."

Patrick told him about the woman he'd met while running errands in town the previous week. "I was walking and looking at a to-do list, not watching where I was going, when I ran directly into her. She was, unfortunately, carrying an armload of tulips at the time."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. After picking up the scattered remains of that bundle of flowers I helped her to take the still-useful ones back to her shop."

"Her shop?"

"Yes," he said. "She owns a little flower shop. We got to talking and she agreed to have dinner with me."

"And does this woman have a name?" Mark prompted.

"That's the funny thing," Patrick said. "Her name is Lily. Talk about your determinative nomenclature."

Mark chuckled, but then his smile faded. "You know," he said, "I never told you what drove me to take the job in Bangor."

"I thought it was that you couldn't pass up the opportunity of a lifetime," joked Patrick.

Mark chuckled. "But you never asked, and I'm grateful that you didn't."

"So now that you have my interest all piqued…"

Mark had already decided to tell him. "I was married for two weeks," he explained, then went into the entire history with his ex and his former best friend, and the year-long-plus aftermath. He tried to keep it brief, knowing that the man had a date to keep. At the end Patrick just looked a little dazed.

"That's… wow. I don't know what to say," Patrick burbled. "I can see why you would want to get away from that."

"Yes." Mark felt a lot better for having told his friend.

"I'm surprised you didn't find someone to have some fun with here."

He pushed down traitorous thoughts about his former student and said, "That's another reason why I'm glad I came here when I did. In London I narrowly escaped the clutches of another woman of almost exactly the same type."

"Glad you did too," said Patrick. "Well, I'm supposed to pick up Lily at seven, so I'd better find my jacket. You know where things are. Make yourself comfortable. Watch a film, make microwave popcorn, have a blast. I just picked up a copy of _Rashomon_."

After unpacking his overnight bag and hanging up his suit for Monday, Mark went into the kitchen. He wasn't much in the mood for popcorn, but thought some wine would be nice after the drive. He had an already-open red in the pantry. After pouring a glass he went into the sitting room and saw the film that Patrick had mentioned. He switched on the television then the DVD player. Instead of a 'no disc' warning, however, something began to play.

It was clearly something that had been recorded in Patrick's classroom. Mark went to switch it off in order to eject the disc, but Patrick's voice sounded just then, announcing that it was the final oral presentations for a class for the term that had just ended. "We'll go in order of surname. Boxer, Davies, Edwards, George, Jones, Owen, Powell, Upjohn then Williams." The mention of the name 'Jones' piqued his interest. It was by no means an uncommon name, but if it were Bridget, he was curious to see her presentation.

He forwarded through the first four. The presentations seemed to be between two and four minutes in length. He pressed Play at the end of the fourth. As the young woman exited to the left of the screen, after a moment, Bridget entered from the right.

She had her hands clasped in front of her, her hair neat and brushed out on her shoulders, dressed in a freshly ironed blouse and skirt; he recalled the day at the end of term on which she'd worn it. She began to speak, but it was too quiet for the microphone to pick up. "Volume, Bridget," said Patrick, amusement in his voice. "I know you're capable of it."

With a smile, she softly cleared her throat and began again. "My presentation is about the metaphorical significance of the presence of rhododendrons in D. H. Lawrence's 1915 novel, _The Rainbow_ and its 1920 sequel, _Women in Love_." With that introduction under her belt she began to speak and as she did, her voice grew in confidence and volume, as well as an elevation of passion for the subject. Her presentation went a little longer than the four minute mark, but he hardly noticed. When she finished she smiled brightly, looked over to her right where Patrick must have been, and said, "That's all. Do I just leave?"

"Yes. Thank you, Bridget."

She delivered a small smile to the camera, then, like her predecessors, exited to the left of the screen.

He pressed Stop on the front of the DVD player, then ejected the disc, placing it in the empty case from which it had clearly come. He looked one more time at the _Rashomon_ DVD sitting there, and realised how not in the mood he was to watch it now. In fact, he did not want to stay inside, but since he did not have a key to Patrick's place, he could not really leave, either.

Mark opted to sit outside on the upper floor balcony. Patrick's house was on higher ground which went downhill towards the easterly facing coast, affording quite a lovely view of the city and the water below. It was not yet twilight—the sun would not set until nearly ten in the evening this far north at this time in July—but the waning sun dipping to the west behind him cast a golden oblique light upon the landscape, the shadows very long indeed. He took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

It was ridiculous, really, what that short video presentation had done to him. He had always thought her cute, even pretty. Now that their relationship as teacher and student was dissolved, he could no longer deny that he had been physically attracted to her, but that was a natural response, he had reasoned, for a healthy, straight man to have in the presence of a lovely young woman. However, seeing her again after almost a month, if only in the form of a recording, had had an unexpected effect on him to which he did not want to admit.

He knew deep down in his soul, though, that it was beyond just attraction. It had hit him only upon seeing her face again how much he had missed her, how he'd longed to hear her laughter again. How much he wanted just to be near her. The strength of these feelings was matched only by the strength of the voice in his head telling him that it was all simply a reaction, a rebound, triggered by his experience with his ex-wife.

He did not know how long he stood outside watching the clouds cross the sky and the shadows get longer still, but it surprised him when Patrick's car sidled up and into the drive. Mark glanced to his watch; it was not even nine in the evening. He watched as Patrick emerged alone and looking rather unhappy. Mark entered the house and went downstairs.

Before he even had a chance to ask, Patrick said, "I must have screwed something up," he said. "I thought it was going so well, and then after dinner she just asked to go home."

"I'm sorry," Mark said, trying to be supportive. "No signs at all?"

"I keep wracking my brain trying to remember. I mean, she talked about flowers a lot, and it was mostly very interesting, but…" He trailed off. "…I admit that there were times when my attention wandered. She's very pretty."

"Maybe that's it," said Mark. "Or maybe she's very busy because of graduation."

"But if she saw me sort of staring at her… maybe she thinks I'm creepy." He then exhaled loudly. "I think I need a drink. Want to join me?"

His only answer was to accompany Patrick to the kitchen. He had Patrick pour some wine into the glass he'd already used then his friend poured one for himself. Without words they each raised their glasses in a silent toast before drinking. To what they were toasting was not clear. Mark supposed a renewed friendship was good enough.

"Sometimes it feels like I'll never find someone," Patrick lamented after taking a big sip and they began to walk to the sitting room. "And even when you think you have…" He trailed off.

Mark considered what Patrick was about to say, and could not say that he had thought his ex-wife anything like a soul-mate. They had seemed well-matched for a long-term partnership. There had been no spark of romance or love involved, which made him question what he had been thinking in the first place, getting married.

"So, what were you doing out on the balcony?" Patrick asked, apparently to change the subject after Mark made no reply. "You didn't watch the film, then?"

"No," Mark replied. "Though I went to put it in but there was a disc in there already."

Patrick was clearly thinking hard on what could have been in there.

Mark supplied, "End of term oral presentations for one of your classes."

"Oh, right!" Patrick said. "I played them again at home for final grades. Did you watch?"

"I admit to curiosity at Bridget's. I hope that's all right."

Patrick chuckled. "It's fine. It's not like it was a closed classroom. I wouldn't say that public speaking is her forte, but her presentation was very good. Compelling and well-researched."

"I wouldn't know one way or another about the research, but I thought it was indeed engaging," Mark said.

"I know you know her penchant for tardiness and last-minute turning in of assignments, but you also know she turns in pretty high quality work," said Patrick. "She's very enthusiastic about literature. Actually," he said, pointing to a bookshelf, "you'd probably be interested in that photo over there. It's from a couple of semesters ago when we went to a Student Friday at the LIPA." Mark knew he meant the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, which he had heard referenced by Patrick in previous conversations. "Class outing. A performance of _Les Liaisons Dangereuses_, adapted from a novel that we had been discussing in class."

Mark strode over to the shelf he indicated and saw the photo Patrick was referencing. His eyes lit on Bridget immediately. Her hair was a little longer, and she was wearing glasses. He smiled.

"You should really read this essay that was a result of that outing." He went to an escritoire, upon which sat his laptop. He pulled open the top and sat down. "Had to keep a copy of it… let me bring it up."

"Bring it up?"

"Some of us are in the current century, Mark," joked Patrick as he tapped away at his computer keyboard, "and we have students turn in papers via email. Ah, here we are." He rose from the desk. "Have a read."

Mark sat down at the desk and began to read the essay that compared and contrasted Christopher Hampton's play to the original book by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos. As he read her astute commentary and observations peppered liberally with acerbic wit, he found himself alternately contemplative and amused. It was entirely representative of the woman he'd grown to know. As he finished, he stood, feeling a bit discomposed as, in his mind, he completed the thought:

_…and love_.

"Pretty good, hm?"

Mark glanced to Patrick, hoping his features weren't saying more than he wanted them to say. "Indeed," he said. "You'll have to tell me how spot on her essay was or wasn't. I'm afraid my familiarity is limited to the film."

"Films, plural," emphasised Patrick. "And it was very spot on."

Mark raised his glass and took a drink.

"And speaking of films, are you feeling up to one?"

"Hm?"

"_Rashomon_, or something else…"

Mark suddenly felt very much like being alone. "Mm, after the drive and the wine, I think I need to make it an early night."

"Understandable," he said. "Go on up, make yourself at home. I'll see you in the morning."

Mark trudged upstairs and into the room he was using. He fetched his overnight bag then went to the bathroom in order to prepare for the night. It was ridiculous; it was not even ten in the evening, he wasn't really all that tired, but he could not bear the thought of idle, light-hearted conversation after the bombshell that had just gone off in his mind.

It wasn't possible. It wasn't rational. It was so unlike him, particularly after so short a time and such a tenuous friendship, to feel for anyone what he felt for her. She would either laugh if she knew or would never speak to him again; he was practically an old man to her. He realised as these thoughts turned around and around in his head that he had been brushing his teeth for close to five minutes. Blinking suddenly at the realisation, he stopped, rinsed out his mouth, washed his face and ran a comb through his hair. He drew his fingers over his cheek and chin, contemplating shaving but ultimately deciding he was just trying to distract himself from being completely alone with his thoughts.

Once back in his room, he went to the window, saw that the day had at last begun to darken. He had the same view out of his room as he'd had from the balcony, and he stood for longer than he should have just watching the sky fade, the stars begin to emerge, the lights twinkling on in the houses below.

What exactly _were_ his feelings? He stared out, not looking at anything in particular, trying to analyse them. He liked her. He liked her company. He thought she was attractive. He cared about her very much. _Nothing wrong with any of these things_, he thought. However, he also considered that he wanted her, wanted to know what it was like to press his lips to hers, take her in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to have her joy and spontaneity in his life, throwing light into his darkest corners, bringing warmth to the chilliest parts of his heart. He wanted to see that bright smile every morning and have it be the last thing he saw each night.

Even though she was wilful, lacked discipline, and not afraid to speak her mind to him, particularly if she disagreed.

He sighed heavily as he came the conclusion that these were some of the things he liked best about her… which brought him looping back to thoughts of why. Was it because she was so diametrically opposed to the women he'd known and had been involved with, even married to? In any other situation, had he never known his ex-wife, Natasha, or any number of other narrow escapes, would he still feel such attraction to Bridget? He pressed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into the corners of his eyes. He honestly did not know. He liked to think he would have.

But there was her age. Not that she was too young; she was just too young for him.

And there was her parents—

_Bloody hell_, he thought. He had to stop this. He would be seeing her in two days at her graduation. He had to get a hold of himself, put this silly infatuation behind him, treat her like the capable and charming young woman that she was, wish her all the best in London, and accept her friendship should she offer it. It occurred to him with no small amount of irony that at least he was no longer obsessing on Daniel and his ex-wife any longer. _Be careful what you wish for_, he thought darkly. _Out of the frying pan and into the fire._

He slipped out of his clothing then beneath the sheets before the sun had even fully set. He drifted off to sleep watching the sunlight grow even dimmer until it finally disappeared completely.

…

As late as sunset was, sunrise was early, and Mark found himself awakened by the full brilliance of morning far too early thanks to the unadorned windows in his borrowed room. Once awake he could not fall back asleep, so decided to rise, shower, shave and dress. He also decided to step out for a walk, nicking Patrick's house key and leaving a note advising he was going to get some sea air. He then walked down towards the water and found a little place there in which to have fried breakfast and coffee.

To his surprise, while walking back from the coffee shop, Mark encountered a familiar face: strolling with apparent purpose towards Mark was Colin Jones, Bridget's father. He gaped in slight surprise. "Mark?" he said squinting a little. "Mark Darcy?"

"Mr Jones," said Mark with a grin, holding his hand out, which Colin accepted with a smile and shook enthusiastically.

"What are you doing in Bangor?"

"I came up for the graduation. Your daughter had invited me, and I decided to make a long weekend of it with a friend here."

"Ah," Colin said.

"Where are you staying?" Mark asked. They were not exactly nearby the campus.

"Oh," said Colin. "Well, Bridget dropped the ball a bit on getting us a space in the residence hall, so we're staying just down the road at a bed and breakfast." He turned and pointed down the road.

"That's great," said Mark, though was not all that sure how he felt knowing she was so close. "I'm just back from breakfast myself," he went on. "Woke up early and didn't want to make noise in the kitchen."

Colin perked. "Oh, just down that way?"

Mark nodded.

"Was hoping to find some coffee and a newspaper," Colin said brightly. "Jolly good. See you tomorrow, I imagine."

Mark nodded. "See you then."

Arriving home, he found Patrick had awakened, had found the note, and was in the process of making himself breakfast. He offered some to Mark, who declined except for the coffee. Patrick advised he had some preparations to make, presumably for the ceremony the next day, so Mark pretty much stayed out of his way, pulling a book out of Patrick's shelf, taking up a side of the sofa and reading.

He spent the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon in this quiet fashion, at least until Patrick poked his head into the sitting room. "Hey, Mark, do me a favour?"

"Mm?" he asked, looking up from the printed page.

"Can I beg you to run down to Tesco for a couple of bottles of red for tonight? I thought I had a few more than I do."

Mark folded a slip of paper into the book to mark his place, then set the book down. "Absolutely," he said. "What's tonight?

Patrick looked at him as if he had begun spouting Urdu. "The drinks party…?"

He realised that Patrick had likely mentioned it earlier but he had been so distracted he just had not heard. "Oh, yes. Sorry. Give me a moment and I'll be off."

The trip did not take long at all; he found rather good quality wine on sale and was back at Patrick's in fewer than forty-five minutes. "I swear it took me longer to navigate through that store than to drive there," Mark said, setting the carrier bag down on the kitchen counter and pulling the wine out.

"Thanks," he said, not looking up from pulling something from the oven.

Mark had not been in the kitchen since having coffee earlier, and was amazed at the transformation; there were all manner of canapés and other finger foods—Indian, Italian and English traditional—on trays all over the place. The kitchen windows were all thrown wide, which explained why he had failed to notice the delectable scent. "Patrick, you should have asked me to help," Mark said. "I feel like a thoughtless clod not realising what was going on in here, reading obliviously while you were slaving away in here."

"Ah, but you're a guest," he replied dismissively. "Plus, cooking like this is something I enjoy very much and never get to do."

Mark felt somewhat mollified. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Will you let me at least buy us some supper?"

"Too late," he said. "I fixed us a lasagne." He indicated the pan he had just taken out.

After supper Mark insisted on doing the washing up, during which Patrick began taking items out of the kitchen and setting them on the dining room table along with the wine and some glasses. Patrick then went to freshen up.

"If anyone shows up before I'm down, just let them in."

"Anyone I know?" Mark thought, thinking perhaps Danny, Rob or the other faculty members he'd known while on staff.

"Very funny," said Patrick with a grin as he wandered away.

Mark checked his own appearance in the sitting room mirror, and, deciding he passed muster, returned to the sofa to continue reading. It was not more than twenty minutes later that the doorbell sounded, so he put the book down again, stood, tugged down the bottom of his shirt, then went to the door.

To his surprise, standing there was Alan, the boy that Bridget had sent off drunk as a skunk from the pub in a taxi some months back, dressed in crisp trousers and a short-sleeved knit shirt. Was this more than just a faculty gathering? "Hi," Alan said, equally confused, stepping back to take a second look at the house number. "This is Professor Baldwin's house, right?"

Mark nodded. "Yes, sorry. He asked me to watch the door while he finished up."

He came in. "Thanks. God, I'm so glad I'm not the first to arrive."

Mark smiled, allowing the misapprehension. "Professor Baldwin should be down very soon."

"Fancy spread," said Alan, craning his head to look at the table in the next room.

"Go on, help yourself," said Mark, then added with a smirk, "within reason."

Alan smiled back. "Think I'll have a bit of the red."

A few minutes later the bell rang again, so Mark went for it. It was another sharply dressed man, clearly another student who looked vaguely familiar, and a young woman in a pretty summery dress; he realised it was the same girl who had appeared immediately before Bridget on the recording. They too looked confused.

"Are we—"

"This is the right address," said Mark with a smile. "Come in. Make yourself at home."

Patrick was down shortly after that, after a few more students had arrived, and he greeted them all with a smile. It was starting to dawn on Mark exactly who the invited guests were, and his heart started pounding considering who else was likely to show. "I'm so glad you guys could come. Have some wine, have some food; this is our little blowout."

"Do we have to talk about literature?" joked the girl from the video. They all laughed.

"Course not," said Patrick. "Unless you want to, I mean. You're graduated now."

The door was standing open now with the frequency of new arrivals and the warmth of the summer night. Mark made his way towards it, towards the porch, and as he went outside he took in a deep breath. His eyes went down the street, in one direction then the other. _Stupid_, he thought. Her parents were here. She wasn't going to leave them on their own.

Movement caught the periphery of his vision and he turned, then froze. Walking down the street in a lovely black knee-length dress with rosettes along the collar was Bridget. Her hair was pulled away from her face and into a little bun; her head was turned to look at the houses, presumably for the address. As she got closer, her head turned and her eyes fixed on Patrick's house. When she saw Mark she stopped in her tracks, raising her hand to her mouth, obviously shocked. But then her hand dropped and a huge smile overtook her face. Adrenaline surged through him as she broke into a run (as best she could in the heeled shoes she was wearing) until she got to Patrick's walk, then dashed up to the porch. "Oh my God!" she said, throwing her arms around him for a hug. She smelled wonderful, like vanilla and roses. "My dad wasn't kidding. You really did come!"

He raised his arms and returned the hug, but as he did his fingers brushed against her bare shoulders; it was a sleeveless dress. Instead he awkwardly patted her on the back, also bare between her shoulder blades, before she released him. "Hi," he said sheepishly.

"I thought you said you'd come to graduation just to be nice," she said, still smiling. She then furrowed her brow. "So why are you at the drinks party?"

"I'm staying with Patrick for the weekend," Mark said, trying hard to keep his eyes from straying from her face down to the utterly tempting broad scoop of her collar. "Where are your parents?"

"Oh, they decided to go out for dinner and dancing," she said, still breathless from her little jaunt. "I think it's really sweet, _really_ romantic."

Mark smiled, trying to otherwise keep rein on his features. "Well, are you hungry? Why don't you come inside for something to eat?"

"Famished," she said. "And I could _really_ use a glass of wine after today. I love my mother but she can drive me mental at times."

"Red or white?" he asked.

"White."

She preceded him into the house. The dress came down lower than he expected in the back, and his eyes followed the valley of her spine down to the hem before he blinked and looked away. "Professor Baldwin!" she said upon seeing Patrick.

She then went up to him and gave him a hug. Mark felt himself deflate a little—the hug she'd given him was nothing special, after all—and turned to get them each a glass of wine, white for her as she'd requested, and red for himself. He could hear Patrick chiding her for calling him 'Professor': "I think you should feel free to call me Patrick now, Bridget," he said. "We're equals now."

She smiled and looked down demurely. "It'll take a lot longer than a month for me to think of myself as your equal," she said.

"Here you are," Mark spoke up, offering her glass to her. She looked up and with another winning smile she accepted the glass.

"Aw, thanks," she said. "Have been dying for this—oh my God!" With that, holding her glass carefully, she bounced off to give a hug to one of her former classmates, then another.

Mark felt very out of place. After his first glass of wine, he went for a top up and to pick at the canapés, though he was not particularly hungry after the lasagne. He surveyed the room. There were probably twenty-five to thirty young people there, and apart from Bridget and Patrick, he did not know any of them except in a very tangential way, such as Alan and a few familiar faces from the video. The chatter of their conversation, the occasional raised, raucous laugh, then the music that someone put on (something modern and pop-ish with a very infectious beat; some had even started to dance) was starting to wear on him; he decided after a time to wander out into Patrick's lawn for some air and some quiet.

A few of smokers had congregated there too, and with a stiff smile in their direction, he breezed past them for the end of the walk. He put his free hand into his trouser pocket, sipped at the wine, and looked out over the city again. Time must have gotten away from him in the party, because even though it had not yet hit twilight, the moon was already visible in the sky.

"Hey."

Startled from his thoughts he turned to see Bridget with a lit cigarette between her fingers. She was smiling though.

"What are you doing out here all on your own? I barely got to see you in there."

It had been his observation that she had indeed been quite the social butterfly, catching up with all of the classmates she hadn't seen since classes had concluded.

"It was getting a bit close in there," he admitted, shifting his weight on to the other foot. "I didn't realise you still smoked."

"Yeah," she admitted, bringing the fag up to her lips and drawing breath in, then exhaling. "Pretty sporadically until getting to London. I'm trying to give up again." He looked pretty pointedly at the glowing end. She chuckled. "I need to try harder, I know. If it helps my case, this is the first I've had all day. Can't with Mum and Dad 'round."

"How is London?" Mark asked, feeling bad that he hadn't done so sooner.

"Oh, I love it." She paused to take a drag, looking out over the city below as he had just been doing. "And I love my job, though it does get a bit boring at times. And I adore Tom, but I hope the flat works out, because he's… _challenging_ to live with."

"Flat?"

She nodded. "Tom knows someone who knows someone who just bought a bigger flat but is locked into a rental agreement on her current one, so she'd have to pay rent and a mortgage." Another puff. "We're meeting on Friday for lunch after I get back. Of all things, she's a investment banker."

He smiled. "Glad to hear it."

She turned to him, looking unexpectedly melancholy. "I'm afraid though that I'll get lonely in my own flat. Even though there are so many people around, it's hard to make friends or meet anyone. I hardly know anyone aside from Tom or the people at work."

He cleared his throat. "And me."

She looked more like her usual self again, even laughed lightly in amusement. "That's true." She took another long draw, then exhaled. "So how about you? How have you been?" She took a drink from a replenished wineglass.

"Busy," he offered, which was not untrue. "Long hours defending the weak and downtrodden."

"Never boring, if I recall." Her features softened. "What about—oh, never mind."

"What?" he asked, his pulse speeding a little at the sight of the crimsoning of her skin.

"I said never mind," she supplied. "It's none of my business."

"No," he said.

"No it's not my business, or no it is?"

"No, I haven't found a girlfriend."

Her mouth dropped slightly. "How did you know I—?" she stammered.

"I read people in my line of work," he said, which was also not untrue, but with her prior mention of fear of loneliness and boredom, coupled with the change in her expression and the blush flooding her cheeks, the conclusion had not been hard to draw.

"You're scary," she said, a slight smile touching her lips.

"I did have Natasha try to reel me in," he said in what he hoped was a light-hearted tone, though reel was not the best phrase to describe what she'd done.

"Ugh," she said, sticking out her tongue. "Good for you for fending her off—have this vision of you doing so in the manner of a lion tamer. Chair, whip and all."

At that he laughed out loud, feeling more at ease. To draw attention away from himself, though, he said, "You know, Patrick had a date on Friday night."

"You're joking."

"I'm not," he said.

At this she dropped the fag end, stepped on it, then insisted they go inside to find Patrick so that Bridget could ask about this date. Upon her approach and demand for information, Patrick laughed. "Boy, you go from 'Professor Baldwin' to prying into my private life during the course of one party."

"Bah! How did your date go?" Bridget asked again.

"I thought it was going well, but… well, at the end of it, she just wanted me to take her back to her shop."

"She went back to _work_?" Bridget asked incredulously.

"Well, she lives over her shop. A flower shop."

"What, did she not have a good time?"

"I don't know," Patrick lamented. "I thought she did. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she just didn't like me."

Bridget put her hands on her hips. "Doesn't like you, bah! Who doesn't like you? If I were you," she said in a slightly stern tone, "I wouldn't give up the potential on mere 'maybe's. Call her again, or better yet, visit her shop, say hello."

Patrick looked understandably confused.

"If you drop in unannounced," she said teasingly, "her reaction will tell you all you need to know."

At this, Patrick laughed. "Good point, Bridget. Good point." He sighed. "Particularly as I do quite like Lily."

"_Lily!_ That's fantastic!" She giggled. "Too bad for the misunderstanding. I would have liked to have met her tonight."

"If we get married, you're invited," Patrick joked.

At that moment, the song changed and Bridget let out a squeal. "Oh, _love_ this song!" she said, setting her nearly empty glass down on a table. "Come on, let's dance!" She and some other students around began to move in a sort of informal up-tempo freeform dance style. Patrick started moving too in a jerky way that made Mark chuckle.

He felt a hand grab and tug his. He looked and found that Bridget had taken it. She was smiling. "Come on, you dance too."

"I can't dance to this," he managed.

"Oh, bollocks. The only people who can't dance to this lack a pulse!" She reached and took the other hand, raising then swinging his hands around in time to the music. He felt his head bob up and down a little and he smiled. Her enthusiasm was infectious. "That's it, you've got it," she said. "Can't dance, my arse!"

This song slid into another that did not sound too much different to him, and she did not let up or release his hands; he continued to move in what was probably a stiff, uncoordinated way, and in fact, he was convinced that her laughter was directed at his appalling dance moves. After the song changed again he had to beg off despite liking that she had given him so much attention.

"That's okay," she said with a wink. "I could use a little more wine." She reached for her discarded glass, then held it out to him. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," he said, slightly bewildered. "Be right back."

He went over to where the wine was with his own glass as well, pouring white again for her and red for him. When he returned she had already engaged in conversation with the girl from the video. It didn't surprise him; she was so much more extroverted than he was. "Thank you, Mark," she said as she accepted the glass. "Kate, have you met Mark Darcy?"

"Not formally," said Kate. "He let me in earlier tonight."

"Mark's from the same town I'm from," Bridget said, reaching and placing her hand on his shoulder. "He's a big lawyer in London." She was leaning into him a little, probably just unsteady on her feet from the wine. "And he taught one of my classes, History of Human Rights Law."

"Oh, right, I remember you mentioning that—er, class." Kate flushed a bit pink. "Oof, no more wine for me."

"And Mark, this is Katey George. We've known each other since first term and have had all manner of literature classes together."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Mark politely. He raised his glass and sipped, nearly choking on the burgundy when he felt Bridget slide her arm through his. He looked to her; she was taking in nearly half the glass in that one swallow before lowering it. He wondered exactly how much she'd had.

"Let's dance again," she said. "I love this song too."

"I think I've embarrassed myself enough—"

"Chuh," she said. "You dance just fine." She set down the glass, grasped his wrist again and swung his hand back and forth. Kate clapped her hands with a giggle of delight—she was obviously tipsy, too—then began to move, along with most of the students in the room.

He gave in and started moving too. Truth was, he didn't mind dancing with her that much. She didn't have perfect natural rhythm, but she moved well enough, and looked great doing so in the dress she was wearing.

The song switched again, and this time, it was a slow song. From the way most of the students were pairing off, had even formed groups of three or four, he realised the song was meaningful to them in some sentimental, end-of-university lamentation-type way. She didn't let go of his hand, only stepped in closer and took the other.

It was all he could do not to put his arms around her and hold her tightly to him. He did, however, slip into a more formal dance posture, putting one hand on her waist, holding the other slightly aloft as it cradled hers. She apparently was having none of formality, though; she let go of his hand and put her arms around his shoulders, resting her temple against his collarbone as they swayed in place.

He raised his hands up, his fingers flitting for a moment on her skin before he remembered how low the back of the dress went; he then just put his arms safely around her waist.

"Can't dance, my arse," she murmured, her eyes closed.

He chuckled at the repetition of her earlier words, though could hear warning sirens going off in his head. She was obviously tipsy, and was touchy-feely at that.

"I didn't say you could stop dancing," she said.

He hadn't realised he'd done so. The tune was still going; in fact, Mark was beginning to think it was the longest song in the history of music. "Sorry."

"Mm, don't let it happen again."

It was too lovely a moment not to enjoy, even though he knew it was dangerous to do so. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, his hands spanning on her back, low-cut back be damned; he was living in a moment where the only thing he could feel was her hair tickling his chin and the warmth of her against him, the only thing he could smell was her perfume, the only thing that existed was the music and the way they swayed together—

"May I cut in?"

Mark opened his eyes and saw Patrick with a strange look on his face, an attempt at a smile that was failing and a look of cool steel at his friend before turning his visage, much softened, to Bridget.

"Of course, Profe—I mean Patrick," she said, giggling, then unsteadily stepped into his arms for what was more of a ballroom dance than anything. Mark pushed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. Feebly he heard Kate ask if he wanted to carry on the dance with her. He politely declined and went for some coffee, his eyes staying on Bridget as she playfully danced with Patrick.

It was not until well after sunset that people started leaving for home, probably because they knew they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow. It appeared that most people had walked from accommodations on campus, or had designated drivers in advance. At least he sincerely hoped they had.

He could hear Bridget's voice carry over the others as she said goodnight and goodbye to their host. During the process of sobering up from his modest wine consumption, he had resolved to keep his distance lest he be foolish enough to be persuaded into something like a dance again, but when he went to say goodbye to her, he could not bear to think of her walking back to her room alone.

"I'll walk with you," he said.

He expected protestations, but it seemed her experience with her ex was still too fresh. She nodded. "Thanks."

Patrick gave him that steely glare again. "See you tomorrow, Bridget."

"See you," she said.

The walk down to the bed and breakfast was quiet; Bangor was not much of a late night town and it seemed the house lights had all but gone out. The sky was clear and the stars shone bright in the sky. The moon was full and cast a silver glow upon the entire scene.

"That was so much fun," she said. "I had a nice time."

"So did I," he said. He put his hands in his pockets.

"I'm really glad you came up," she said. "I mean, I'm glad my parents are here too, but it means a lot that you c—" She stopped short and didn't seem inclined to finish.

"That I what?" he prompted.

"Came. Took the time out of your schedule," she finished in a slightly odd tone. He suspected that it wasn't what she was originally going to say, but he wasn't going to press the matter.

When they got to the bed and breakfast, she got up onto the step, fished out the key, opened the lock and twisted the knob to let herself in. She then turned to him. "Thanks again."

"Of course," he said. "It was my pleasure."

Instead of saying anything more, she just looked up at him with wide eyes that seemed to be searching his. Then as quick as lightning she took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his for a light, fleeting kiss, then another that lingered a little longer.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently away. This could not be allowed to occur when she was not in possession of her senses. "Goodnight," he said at seeing her slightly stunned expression, stepping back a pace.

"Goodnight," she whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Into the Fire**  
7 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,589 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 7. **

As he walked back to Patrick's, her ambushing him with a kiss was all he could think about, even though he knew he should not read anything into it than her being a little physically over-friendly while she was intoxicated. The sensation of her lips upon his, though, was not one that was going to leave any time soon.

When he came in only three people and Patrick remained. Patrick seemed grateful for the assistance in getting the rest of them out so that they could do some perfunctory cleaning before heading off to sleep.

Patrick switched the music off and began piling all of the wine glasses onto a tray. Mark was picking up paper plates and other finger food detritus. They both ended up in the kitchen at the same time and that's when Patrick spoke at last. The question was not completely unexpected.

"Mark," he said, setting down his tray. "What was going on tonight with Bridget?"

He was not going to play disingenuous with Patrick, particularly with that all too memorable kiss as she'd stood on the stoop of the bed and breakfast. "Nothing was going on," he said. "I think she just had a bit too much wine and was friendlier than usual."

"I mean with you."

Mark furrowed his brow. "Me?"

"I saw your expression all through the evening when you were looking at her, and hell, I thought you might start snogging there while you were dancing. Why do you think I cut in?" He exhaled. "Be honest with me. Do you have feelings for her?"

"Of course I do. She's the daughter of my parents' friends—"

"That's not what I mean," Patrick interrupted, "and you know it."

Mark said nothing in response, but the silence said volumes. Patrick was striking uncomfortably close to a truth he barely wanted to admit to himself.

"Did it start during school?" Patrick went on.

"Did what start?"

"Whatever is going on between you two."

"There's nothing going on, then or now," he said. "I promise you. Yes, I'll admit I'm attracted to her, but nothing can ever come of it."

Patrick sighed, then looked away. "I've known her since the start of uni—she was in my first-year classes the first semester I taught. I feel a bit protective, Mark. And need I remind you that that girl was not even yet born when you and I met at Eton."

"I understand. I'd feel the same in your place." He thought briefly of Alan's advances in the pub, of the aborted attack. He already had felt that way.

Patrick looked a bit relieved. "Come on. Let's get this crap taken care of. I'm wrecked."

As they carried on gathering up all of the uneaten canapés into the kitchen and re-corked and stowed the rest of the wine, Mark's mind turned and turned over the events of that evening, on the past, and about future possibilities.

_Crazier things have happened_.

"Patrick?" he asked as his friend put the unopened bottles into the wine rack.

"Mm?"

"What if," Mark began tentatively, "something _did_ come of it?"

Patrick stood and looked at Mark.

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Bridget. Me. What if despite the fact that it should never happen… it does? Would that really be so bad?"

Patrick did not respond.

"If I were still her instructor, it would absolutely be inappropriate," Mark said.

"I agree," said Patrick.

"But I'm not. And yes, she's young, she's my parents' friends' daughter, but… are those good enough reasons to deprive myself of what could be true happiness? And you know me," he continued. "This is not something I would go into frivolously, or casually."

"Mark," said Patrick after several thoughtful minutes. "Are you trying to convince me… or yourself?"

"Maybe a little of both," he admitted. "But it's ridiculous to even speculate when she thinks I'm practically geriatric."

Patrick chuckled, which relieved Mark. "She seemed a little more flirtatious than she would have been with an octogenarian."

"She was half-pissed," he reminded. "And you never answered my question."

Patrick loaded the canapés that required refrigeration into a storage container, then snapped on the sealing lid. "In all honesty," he said, "I would be concerned that you were having a mid-life crisis."

At this Mark laughed out loud. "Don't think I haven't already thought of that myself. But it's more than a physical attraction. She's filled a hole in my life I didn't even know was there."

Patrick appeared to consider his words again. "I guess I don't have anything against it in principle," he eventually went on. "I think she is a great girl, not without her faults, but a great girl. And… well, there's a big blank spot in the middle of our friendship, but you're not so different from the kid I knew way back when. It's just… a bit odd to me. I guess because I've known her since she was seventeen. To me it's like she's a kid, herself."

"But she isn't."

"That isn't what you said before, when I first broached the subject with you," said Patrick. "Isn't it even odder for you than for me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you've known her since she was a child."

He decided to come clean on exactly how well he'd known her prior to the classroom. "I remember her in nappies," he said, "then we met again for the first time last New Year's as adults."

"Oh," he said. "I assumed…"

"I know," he said, "and it's my fault for letting you think that."

Patrick ran his fingers over his face. "Still seems a bit odd," he said. "And how do you think will she fit into your world? Doesn't it concern you what your colleagues might think?" Mark realised his own expression must have changed, for he added quickly, "But surely you've considered this, too. I don't mean to offend you. Just thinking out loud, letting you know how the idea strikes me."

Mark nodded; he had been avoiding thinking of exactly how Bridget might fit into his world of barristers and high society. "Well," he said. "Not as if it _will_ go anywhere, but it's good to know where you stand." He patted Patrick's shoulder. "Going to retire. It'll be a busy day."

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll be right behind you, I think."

As Mark slipped beneath the sheets, in the dark and the quiet of the room, his mind's eye was unsurprisingly filled with images from during the course of the evening. It was to this he drifted off to sleep. In his dreams, he stood with her again on the stoop of the bed and breakfast, which was also the stoop of Tom's place as well as her building on campus. In his dreams, when she kissed him, he did not push her away.

…

The graduation ceremony was held at three in the afternoon. He sat with Patrick with the faculty and staff but was able to easily spot Bridget's mother (wearing a bright lemon-coloured jacket, skirt and matching Jackie-O-style pillbox hat) and father peppered in amongst the guests. He waved, and Colin waved back. As the graduates came in, his eyes scanned the crowd for Bridget; he found her quickly, she found him, and they exchanged smiles before she took her seat.

Most of the ceremony was dry; someone gave what was essentially a pep speech about how the future was ahead of them like the open road, and how they had a multitude of choices laid out before them. He expected it was the same sort of speech given at every graduation ceremony, and though he should have, he didn't pay much attention, applauding politely when required. However, when they started calling the graduates up for their recognition, when Bridget's name was announced, he clapped very enthusiastically as she received her papers.

Afterwards he waded through the crowd, homing in on Pam's bright hat. Their daughter had not yet joined them.

"Mark!" said Pam. "I could hardly believe it when Colin said he'd seen you just down the street from where we're staying! And then Bridget said you were at her party last night. And here you are!"

"Mrs Jones," he said, bending to politely peck a kiss on Pam's cheek, then turning to shake Colin's hand. "Nice to see you. I'm glad I could make it."

"Very kind of you to come all this way," said Colin.

"She was a good student, and she asked if I would come. I didn't want to let her down."

Colin smiled. "Well, I can tell you she appreciates it. Have you met Jamie?"

Mark blinked very quickly as Colin indicated a good-looking man who was hovering on the periphery, not as young as Bridget but not as old as himself if he had to guess, with short dark blond hair and gleaming blue eyes. He was smiling and seemed eager to join the conversation. His thoughts were in a whirl; Bridget had not mentioned meeting someone already. Maybe she'd done so to spare his feelings. But how would she even know there were feelings to spare?

"He almost couldn't come," supplied Pam, "and Bridget was so disappointed, but we managed to get a ticket for him. It'll be such a surprise for her! Jamie, this is Mark Darcy."

"Hi," said Jamie, offering his hand for a shake. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."

"It's nice to meet you too," said Mark, accepting the handshake, wondering precisely what he'd heard.

"_Jamie?_"

It was Bridget's voice sounding out; they all turned to see her sprinting across the hall, her graduation robes flapping behind her, to where her family was before launching herself into a ferocious hug with Jamie.

"Hi, Bridge," said Jamie, chuckling as he returned the hug.

"I thought you couldn't come! Oh my God!"

"Got onto campus just before the ceremony," he said. "Wanted to surprise you."

"Today is perfect," she said, tears flowing down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes closed.

When she pulled away at last, Mark asked, his spirits flagging at the sight he'd just witnessed, "So did you meet in London?"

Jamie looked stunned for a moment before laughing. Bridget looked confused as she brushed away her tears. "What?"

Pam and Colin chuckled too. "Mark," explained Pam, "sorry, my fault. This is our son. Bridget's brother."

Mark felt an uncharacteristic flood of heat creep up from the collar of his shirt to stain his face. "Oh," he said.

The light dawned. "Oh, you thought…" Bridget smiled, then laughed too. "I would have mentioned a boyfriend sooner," she said, her eyes meeting his, her smile softening.

Mark thought it must have been his imagination, but for a second he swore she was flirting with him again.

"Come now," said Colin. "We're expected at the departmental reception. Anyone know where it is?"

"I can show you the way."

It was a smiling Patrick.

"You must be Bridget's parents," he continued. "She was such a pleasure to have in class. You must be very proud."

Pam was beaming and Colin reached to shake his hand, introducing Jamie as well. "And you must be Professor Baldwin. Bridget's enjoyed your classes very much."

After giving Bridget a moment to shed the graduation robe, they headed off towards where the reception was being held. Bridget walked with her arm around her brother's waist and Jamie's arm around her shoulders; Mark was a few paces behind them. She was wearing a very pretty knee-length white dress and low heels. He looked away, realising he was focusing too much on the movement of her backside.

"Hear you have a job in the big city," Jamie said.

"Yup. And a line on a flat."

"Oooh," teased Jamie. "Movin' up in the world."

She laughed, tightening her embrace for a moment. "How's Manchester? How's Becca?"

"Everything's going great," Jamie said in reply. "In fact, we're moving in together."

"You are? Isn't it a bit soon?"

"We've been seeing each other for three years," he said. "It seems silly to have two separate places."

"But you're not a vegan."

Jamie laughed. "We can keep the foodstuffs separate," he said. "You find ways to make things like that work when you love someone."

Bridget went silent for the remainder of the walk, which admittedly was not much further; Mark tried not to read too much into it.

The department had put together a nice little wine and cheese reception, done up with pretty floral bouquets and paper streamers. As they grazed the table, Mark could not help but think with a wry smile that Patrick's party had had much better food.

Jamie and the Joneses wandered towards where the beverages were while Mark, Patrick and Bridget lingered at the table. He saw Bridget's brow furrow. "Oh my," she said with a smirk. "I hate to alarm you, Patrick, but there is a very pretty ginger woman with a very pervy look in her eyes heading straight for you."

"What?" He turned and saw the woman in question. His eyes went wide and his mouth transformed with a great big smile. "Lily! What are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you too," she said with a smile. "Who do you think supplied all of these flowers?"

After introductions were made all around, Mark was pleased to see Lily slip her hand through the crook of Patrick's elbow. It would seem that the date had ended early for reasons unrelated to how she felt about his friend, after all.

"The flowers are beautiful," said Bridget. "You did a really great job with them."

"Yes," added Patrick. "They're magnificent."

"Thank you," Lily said with a smile.

"Mark, come on, let's get some wine," she said, reaching and taking his elbow too. "It was nice to meet you," she added as she pulled him away.

Mark was too discombobulated by her actions to speak, even through Bridget ordering wine for the pair of them.

As she handed him his glass of red, she said, "I thought they could use a moment alone."

"Alone? In a crowd of hundreds?" he said.

"You know what I mean," she said, smiling slyly, then sipped at her wine.

"I have something for you," he said suddenly. At her confused look, he reached into his inner jacket and pulled out a small square box and envelope.

"Oh, you really shouldn't have."

"I wanted to," he said. "It's a milestone to remember."

With a smile she reached to take them. "Oh, hold my drink for a moment?"

"Absolutely."

She opened the card; it was a blank card with an artistic photo of London at night on the front. On the inside he had written a very simple sentiment: _Congratulations on your achievement—you must be as proud of yourself as we all are. With affection, Mark_. He watched her smile broaden, then she raised her eyes up to him. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"Of course," he said, then pointed. "The box."

She giggled. "Right." She pulled the top off of the box, smiled as she raised it up its contents dangling from her finger.

"A key ring," he said.

"I can see that." The main part of it was in the shape of a four-leafed clover, and in the centre was her first name engraved in a tasteful script. "Oh, silver, my favourite. It's lovely."

"I thought for your flat key, when you get one," he said. "And for luck."

"Thank you," she said, stepping forward, pecking a kiss on his cheek, then giving him a big hug. With the wineglasses in his hands he could not really return it. "That was very thoughtful of you," she murmured near his ear, before pulling back with a cheery smile. She slipped the card and the key ring into her handbag, then offered to take her wine glass back. She took a big sip and smiled again.

They were interrupted at that time by two of her classmates who had not been at the party the night before, and within moments they were all off gabbling about what they had done since the end of the term. Mark politely excused himself and walked away, considering it might be best to leave for London sooner rather than later. He did not know quite what to make of her behaviour; it seemed very much like she was continuing to flirt with him, but was he just reading too much into it? Did he want her to be flirting with him?

_Of course you don't_, he scolded himself, even though the sensation of her breath on his cheek was still very vivid. Nonetheless, he thought it was probably a good idea to start the drive back to London in order to get home in time for a decent night's sleep.

He set down the glass of wine untouched, then went to find Patrick to say his goodbyes. His friend was still with Lily, which made him smile again.

"Mark! Having a nice time?"

"Fantastic," he said, "but I'm afraid I must be heading home."

"Already?"

"It's a long drive," he said.

"True, I suppose it is. Well, Mark, please don't be a stranger. Keep me up to date on your life, okay?" He said it in such a way that Mark knew exactly what he meant.

"I'll be sure to."

He found the Joneses and said goodbye to them as well. He left finding Bridget for last. She was still with her friends, right where he'd left her.

"Oh, you're leaving already?" she asked, clearly crestfallen.

"I'm afraid I must," he said. "I have to work tomorrow."

"Oh," she said again. "I thought you'd be staying another night."

"Unfortunately not."

"I'll, uh, walk to your car," she said, setting down her empty glass. "Okay?"

"Okay."

They left the room, then the building, heading to where he had parked, his overnight bag already in the boot. When they reached the car he turned to her.

She said, "It means a lot to me that you came."

"I was glad to do it."

"Too bad I can't hitch a ride back with you," she said half-heartedly.

"Like old times," he said in return. "Listen, I'd like to give you my number." Her brows shot up. "In case you need anything in London," he added. "Don't hesitate to call me." He reached into his jacket pocket for his pen; he was sure he did not have any business cards with him.

"O-okay," she replied unsurely. She opened her handbag and got out the card he'd given her. "You can write it on this."

He took the card from her, his fingers momentarily touching hers, before scrawling down his home and mobile numbers. "I mean it. If you need anything."

She nodded. "Drive safely."

"I will."

He stood there looking down at her and she up at him, holding the card in her hand and smiling ever so slightly. A quick hug would not be inappropriate, he decided, so held out his arms to offer one. She accepted, folding into his embrace, her arms coming up and around him. He gave her a light, friendly peck on the temple. "See you soon," he whispered.

He felt her hands press into him, felt her head tilt back ever so slightly, and was shocked to feel her lips press a delicate kiss against his jawline. "Okay," she responded quietly.

She then let go and stepped back. With another smile she turned away and walked back into the building. His mind was reeling; he was too overcome to say anything or to follow her. She was nowhere near to being intoxicated, and what she had just done was left open to very few interpretations.

The drive seemed to take an eternity. He could only think of her, and as a result, became increasingly angry at himself for allowing such a juvenile distraction. He drove directly home, not even stopping for curry in Birmingham, and upon arrival poured himself a stiff shot of scotch.

His telephone rang. He let it go to the answerphone. "Mark?" The last person he wanted to talk to. Natasha. "I was just wondering if you were back yet, if you wanted to get a late supper. Call me."

_I'd rather eat dog food_, he thought.

He decided to order a pizza for delivery. He did not feel like being around other people, and he did not want to risk running into Natasha or her ilk while out.

…

"Did you have a good weekend?"

Thankfully it was Jeremy and not Natasha who had hunted him down.

"It was very pleasant," he said. "I had a very nice time."

"Listen," Jeremy said, his voice dropping down into a confidential register. "Are you avoiding Natasha?"

"Natasha knows my feelings for her—or rather, lack of them. She just cannot take a hint."

Jeremy laughed. "Too much like ol' what's-er-name," he observed astutely.

Mark furrowed his brows. "Have a question for you."

"Hm?"

"How much of an age difference is too much?"

"What?"

"I mean in a potential girlfriend."

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "And the age of the man?"

Mark clarified, "Early to mid-thirties."

Jeremy regarded him suspiciously. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No, no," he said. "Just wondering."

"Hm. Well, as a rule, I don't go any younger than eight years my junior. Anything younger, and they just haven't got enough life experience."

He and Jeremy were roughly the same age. That meant twenty-five. "Okay," he said.

"Mark," he said in a dangerously curious tone. Mark was regretting ever bringing it up. "Did you have a shag with a girl up there in Bangor?"

"No," he said emphatically. "Of course not!"

"The lady doth protest too much," Jeremy said with a smirk. "Mark, you can tell me if you did, you know. It'd be nice to know you got a little now and then."

Mark sighed, deciding to relent a little. "I met a woman…"

"Ha! The truth is out!"

"Actually… she was in my class."

Jeremy's lecherous smirk fell. "Oh."

"Nothing happened then," he said proactively. "I just didn't know what people might think if… something did."

"How old?"

"Twenty. No, twenty-one." He recalled she'd had a birthday in March.

Jeremy whistled.

"But she seems older than that in some ways," he said, even as he considered how mad she'd driven him with fibs about her dead computer, and three-word essays.

The smile slowly returned. "I think you'd be my hero, frankly."

At that Mark chuckled. "I don't know how I'd feel about me being your hero in that regard," said Mark. "I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself."

He made a zipping motion across his lips. "Scout's honour."

Mark's mobile began to vibrate at that moment, skittering on the desktop until he palmed it. He looked at the incoming number; he did not recognise it. "If you'll excuse me, please."

"Sure thing."

Jeremy left, closing the door behind him until it latched. He opened the mobile.

"Mark Darcy speaking."

There was no one apparently on the line.

"Hello?"

"Hi." It was a quiet, timid, female voice. His mind shot into fifteen different directions at once: victim of cultural ritual or hate crime? Evading persecution by cruel dictatorship? Then the voice continued talking. "It's me. It's Bridget."

He blinked rapidly, glancing to the clock in the corner of his computer. It wasn't even five in the evening. "Hi," he said over the flush of adrenaline that raced through his system. "Everything all right?"

"Mm-hm," she said. "Just back in town."

"Ah," he said, his eyes flashing up to ensure the door had not opened again, that no one was listening. Nothing had changed. "I'm at work," he added.

"Oh!" she said. "You're not, like, in the middle of court, are you?"

He laughed lightly; it was sort of sweet how intimidated she seemed. "No, I'm in my office."

"Oh," she said. She said nothing else.

He smiled. "Was there something I could do for you?" he prompted.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry. I… Tom's got a show Friday night."

"What?" he asked at this apparent non sequitur.

"I promised to take you to one of his shows when we were both in London again, and I was wondering…" She trailed off.

He had completely forgotten about their little pact. "Yes, of course," he said. "I'd love to go."

"Oh, great," she said with a great rush of breath.

"What time?" he asked.

"Ten."

"You want me to pick you up at ten?"

"No," she said with a laugh. "The show starts at ten."

"Okay… shall I pick you up at nine?"

"How about eight? We can have supper beforehand. They serve really good food."

He tried to ignore the pulse pounding out of control in his ears. It was becoming more and more like a date.

"Mark?" she asked, voice reverting to timidity. He realised he had not yet answered.

"Sorry, someone was trying to get my attention," he fibbed. "Yes, yes, that sounds great."

"Okay," she said. "See you then." After a pause, she said, "You remember where Tom's place is, right?"

"Yes," he said. "See you then."

…

He threw himself into work for the remainder of the week, believing wholeheartedly that if he distracted himself enough he could convince himself that Friday night would be no different than having dinner or an after-work drink with Jeremy, Natasha, or any other of his friends or colleagues, but as he rang the bell at Tom's place at 7:55 pm that Friday night, he knew from the nervous ball in his stomach, the trembling in his hands, that it was nothing like any of those things.

"Hello?" said a man's voice. It must have been Tom.

"Hello. I'm here for Bridget."

Silence, followed by a curt, "We'll be right down."

Mark said nothing in response. He was too surprised. Perhaps it was not a date of any kind whatsoever. Maybe he had made a string of foolish assumptions—

The front door swung open. Tom, immaculately groomed compared to the last time he'd met the man, gave Mark an inexplicably haughty look as he stepped out.

"Tom's going to ride down with us."

Bridget emerged from behind him. She looked radiant in a sleeveless dress made of a pale-coloured, thin, gauzy fabric, cotton or possibly linen; the skirt swept down to just above her knees, one layer over another over another and swinging with her every motion. It was perfect for a July night. His eyes drifted to her legs, which were shapely and, as best as he could tell, bare. She had open-toed shoes on her feet; the heels raised her height rather significantly.

"Okay," he said, snapping to his senses, leading them to his car. He noticed that Tom's expression did not improve.

"Haven't seen a drag show before, have you?" Tom asked once they were on their way.

"I admit I have not," he said. "I'm looking forward to it. Bridget says you're very good." She had not said so directly, but he thought she wouldn't mind a fib in order to smooth things over with Tom, who seemed very surly towards him. A quick glance in the rear view mirror revealed a quirked eyebrow from Tom as he looked towards Bridget, who had taken the front passenger seat beside him, and towards whom Mark dared not look; he was sure her dress had ridden up in taking the seat.

"You'll want to turn left at the next intersection," Tom said brusquely.

He was able to find a parking spot a couple of blocks away. In walking towards the club, Tom insinuated himself between Mark and Bridget. He did not quite understand the hostility, did not know what he had done (or what Bridget had said) to get him into such a state.

"So how old are you, Mark?" Tom asked, shooting a look towards Mark.

"Tom, _honestly_," said Bridget.

"I think I have a right to know," he said.

"Why do you have a right to know?" she asked playfully. "I can have friends of all ages. He could be seventy and it'd be no business of yours."

Mark barely heard Tom's reply expounding on his reasoning—"I know men, Bridget, and I know their motives," to which she made a dismissive sound—because all he could focus on was the way she'd phrased her retort to Tom.

_Friends._

"Well," Tom said just inside the door of Loosey's. "I hope you enjoy the show. I'll see you later?" he asked, directing a very pointed stare at Bridget. She rolled her eyes.

"Yes, _Mother_," she said with a smile before pecking him on the cheek.

When Tom was out of earshot, Mark said quietly, "You look very nice."

"Thanks," she said with a chuckle. "Look pretty nice yourself." She reached and brushed her fingers along the shoulder of his suit jacket as if sweeping off lint. "Though possibly overdressed for this venue."

"Oh, do you think?" said Mark. "I wasn't sure."

She giggled. "Maybe lose the tie. Unbutton the top button of your shirt."

He swore she might have reached up and done it herself had a server not come along to bring them to a table. Eccentrically decorated in mismatched armchairs of varying upholsteries and tables of different architectural styles, erratically lit with light fixtures hung at different lengths from the ceiling, Mark had never been to a place quite like it. Probably in another life it had been a comedy club or dinner theatre; there was a stage on one side, and most of the tables sat two to four, but along the edges were larger booths and bench seating.

"White wine for me," he heard Bridget say. "Nothing too dry."

"And for you?"

"I'll, uh… red please."

"Be right back. Menus are on the table."

Before he sat he divested himself of his jacket, folded it in half, then laid it over the arm of one of two unused chairs at their table. He was garnering looks from other patrons, who, Mark realised, were dressed very informally indeed in tees, jeans, trainers, combat boots and the like. Uncomfortably he reached up and undid his tie, pulling it out from around his neck.

He heard her chuckle then say something too quietly to make out.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, stuffing it in his jacket pocket.

"Button," she said, miming her own throat.

"Oh, yes." He reached up and undid the top button. She surprised him by rising up out of her chair, reaching forward over the table, taking his shirt lapels by her fingertips, and flaring the collar outward to open up the front of his shirt.

"Better," she said with a crooked smile.

He glanced down, clearing his throat, looking at the menu. Beef, turkey and veggie burgers, chips, chilli, pasties, three kinds of curry… a very strange mixture of American and British comfort foods. He ordered a cheeseburger and thick cut chips. Bridget got a mini-pizza.

He looked across the table at her, noticed for the first time consciously that she had her hair down. He couldn't swear to it, but he thought her hair might be shorter, just sweeping along her collarbones.

"Something wrong?" she asked, noticing his scrutiny.

"Did you do something different to your hair?" he asked, then added hastily, "It looks nice, just different."

She grinned again. "Spent some of my hard-earned wages on a haircut. Wanted to make a nice impression with Jude today."

"Jude?"

"The investment banker. The sublet."

"Oh," he said. "Did that go well?"

"Oh, fantastic," she said, sipping at her wine. "We got on very well. In fact, we got on so well we're meeting for lunch again next week. She had to meet two other girls today but so far I'm the front runner."

"That's marvellous," he said. "And how's the flat?"

"It's really nice."

"I'm glad for you," he said, drinking his own wine.

"I can't wait to have my own place," she said. "Don't get me wrong. Love Tom, but I… need my space. I need more privacy."

It brought to mind Tom's standoffish behaviour. "Bridget, speaking of Tom… why does he seem to hate me so much?"

"Oh," she said, her high spirits crashing to earth. "Well, I only just told him about… Ben."

"I'm sorry." Instinctively he reached his hand out to cover the back of hers in comfort, squeezing gently. She squeezed his fingers back and did not let go. "But… what does that have to do with me?"

"He's distrustful of straight men at the moment." She lifted her eyes, then smiled, then began to laugh softly. Mark smiled too.

"So why did he ask about my age?"

"Here you are." It was the server with their meals.

"Thank you," said Mark, letting go of her hand as she sat upright to allow her pizza to be set down in front of her.

"Mmm, looks great," she said, picking up a slice and taking a bite. He looked down, picked up half of his cheeseburger and bit into it. She hadn't answered the question, but it was possible she hadn't heard it, either. He let it slide.

The rest of dinner passed with conversation about her job and his, about how she was adjusting to life in London, even about how she was coping after the attack by her ex… but all the while he could only think: Had she been flirting, or had he just been misinterpreting innocent actions and displays of friendly affection? For what exactly did she need space and privacy? Why _was_ his age such a concern for Tom? Where exactly did he stand with her?

After dinner she decided she wanted dessert, but did not want to eat an entire fudge-drizzled brownie herself. He agreed to split it with her. Upon placing the order for dessert and coffee, she got up and sat in the chair next to him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"It's harder to share a gooey brownie over a table, plus, the show starts in ten minutes and it's easier to see from this angle." She reached for her wine, picked it up, and drained the rest of it with a smile.

It was very hard for him to reconcile the girl beside him with the girl from New Year's Day. He felt the corner of his mouth tug into a smile.

"What?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just glad to be here with you."

He was afraid he might have said the wrong thing until she smiled too. "Freshly minted uni graduate and everything."

Reminded again of her age, Mark looked down.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Sorry. It's me."

"Don't apologise," she said. "I keep saying stupid things that make you uncomfortable." He looked up to her. Under the table, he felt her hand cover his where it rested on his knee. He froze. She withdrew her hand, sat back in her seat. "Oh God. I keep _doing_ things that make you uncomfortable."

"No," he said quickly. "It isn't that what you say or do that makes me uncomfortable."

"But you just looked like you bit into a lemon."

Did he really have to come out and say it? He swallowed hard, looking at her intently. "The only problem with what you say or do is that I'm having trouble interpreting exactly what it means."

With impeccable timing yet again, their brownie and coffees arrived. She did not turn away from his gaze, at least not without effort. She reached for a fork, took off the corner of the brownie. The coffees had arrived as ordered: black house brew for him, a cappuccino for her.

She stared at the brownie corner she had cut off, resting in the cradle of the fork. "Mark," she said at last. "Would it help to know that Tom thinks you're too old for me… and that I don't agree?"

When he didn't say anything, she raised her eyes to him. Her expression seemed to want to will him to understand, as if he hadn't heard her, but he had. He could, however, barely believe his ears.

At last he found his voice. "Bridget…"

"Shh," she said. "Have some brownie."

She raised her fork. Without blinking, without breaking their gaze for a moment, he opened his mouth and she slipped the brownie-laden fork in. After curling his lips around the tines, with excruciating slowness she pulled her hand back.

"Do you like it?" she asked quietly. Quickly he chewed and swallowed.

"Yes," he said, his voice cracking.

He saw a smile flit on her lips again before her mouth opened ever so slightly. When he didn't move, she prompted, "My turn…?"

"Yes, of course."

He took his own fork in hand, sliced off the opposite corner, and raised it up and into her mouth. "Mmm," she said as he withdrew the utensil; he could feel her teeth graze the tines. She closed her eyes momentarily to savour the brownie as she chewed. Lifting her lids again, her tongue darting to the corner as if in habit, she declared, "Excellent."

"Bridget," he said again. It sounded desperate to his ears.

The house lights dimmed. The show was about to begin.

Tom was not the first to take the stage, but rather, a comedian who was not particularly funny, though she seemed to think he was. He picked at the brownie only because she prodded him to, and he barely touched his coffee. What had just occurred, what it seemed to mean, was looming far too large in his thoughts.

Tom's stage persona, Raven Lunatic, was a brunette bombshell with a slinky sequined evening gown, long marcel-waved hair and picture-perfect 40s-style makeup, reminding him of one of the silver screen goddesses of the age, one whose name escaped him at present. The illusion was so complete that if Mark had not known any better he never would have questioned that the performer was a woman who just happened to have an unusually deep voice and larger than average feet. Tom had chosen old standards for which he had made subtle but fresh changes to the arrangement. There was little wonder that the place was packed. Raven was really very good.

It was during the third song that Mark felt her hand on his again under the table. Rather than stiffen as he had before, he turned his hand a little to accept it, felt her smooth fingers slide along his knuckles in order to grasp it. He ventured a glance in her direction. She offered him a tentative smile.

There was something about the stage lights, the hue and tint of the glow of the stage, that made her eyes shimmer in a manner reminiscent of the sheen of a dragonfly's wings. She knit her brow ever so slightly, leaned in closer.

"Everything all right?" she asked into his ear.

He closed his eyes, the warmth of her breath almost intoxicating. "Fine."

He felt the velvety skin of her knee beneath his fingers. He didn't know if he had moved his hand there or if she had, but the sensation jolted through him. He heard her draw in a quick breath, felt her touch her lips to his cheek.

"We can leave if you want to."

She pulled back to meet his eyes. He swore he had only thought it.

Slowly, she nodded.


	8. Chapter 8

**Into the Fire**  
8 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,570 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

I could have been _SO MEAN_... :D

* * *

**Chapter 8.**

He sat up, looked for and got the attention of the server, who came promptly with their ticket. After retrieving his jacket and tie from behind her on the chair then slipping the jacket back on, he pulled out his wallet and left enough cash on the table to more than cover their bill. When the show reached a break, he stood, offered his hand to her, and helped her to her feet.

He felt like someone else was directing his limbs, pulling the strings allowing him to walk while he observed what was to him an improbable scene, his hand hovering on her waist as they went for the car. It was only upon reaching it that he felt as if he were moving under his own power again; their gazes locked, and it was then, as he leaned her back against the passenger door, that he brought one hand up to wrap his fingers around the nape of her neck, his thumb grazing on her cheek. As he drew her closer to pull her into a kiss, her lids, his own, fluttered closed in anticipation.

The fire of his attraction combusted in the very moment their lips touched, and in direct reaction he roughly covered her mouth with his own; with all constraints now dissolved away, there was nothing tentative about the way he kissed her. She made a soft sound in response and threaded her fingers into his hair, arching up into him. He brought his hands to her hips, and it took a concerted effort on his part to keep them where they were; though it was relatively deserted, they were, after all, on a city street.

She pulled back. As his eyes met her sparkling ones again, he felt her fingers on his cheek, then nails gently drawing down along the pulse in his throat. "Take me to your place," she quietly commanded, her voice raspy.

Were it anyone but her he might have proceeded without hesitation. Caught up in the moment, in this whirlwind of physical desire, she might have serious regrets in the light of day. He placed his hand over hers and asked, his voice gravelly, "Are you absolutely sure this is what—"

"Yes, Mark," she interrupted. "I've given this a lot of thought. I was sure you'd noticed how much." She tilted her chin up, brushing her lips against his, triggering another passionate kiss between them. He tightened his fingers on her hips as she raked her nails down over his chest. She then broke away, whispering, "Your place."

He brought himself up to his full height, cupping her face with his palm, giving her a quick peck before stepping back with as much dignity as he could muster given the desire he presently felt.

She clearly had felt it as well, judging from the a crooked smile upon her face as he opened the door for her. She sank into the seat. He closed it for her, then walked quickly around to the other door to take the wheel.

It was a miracle he did not lose control of his car, crash into a light pole or end up in the Thames; driving with her idly grazing her nails over the back of his hand, leaned back in the seat with her dress riding up, was terribly distracting. At the red light he looked to her; her brows raised at the undoubtedly exasperated expression on his face. "You're making it very hard for me," he explained.

She pursed her lips together, trying not to laugh. He probably could have phrased that differently.

As he turned the corner onto his street, he noticed she became a little more awestruck. "I didn't know you lived _here_," she said reverently as he pulled into his drive.

"What do you mean?"

"It's really posh here," she said. "I mean… _really_ posh."

"So I'm told," he said. "This matters why?"

She offered a smile again, this time tentatively. "I am, er, not posh."

"I would have thought _you'd_ noticed," he began, lobbing her words back at her, "that I think you're better than posh."

At this she giggled a little.

He rose from behind the wheel and went around to offer a hand to her to help her get out of the car. She beamed a smile up to him. He had a straight line of vision down her dress, and he suspected she knew it.

He opened the front door and allowed her to enter first; the house was dark save for a small amber lamp in the foyer. The place seemed unnervingly quiet; her heels echoed very loudly on the glossy parquet floor. He slipped out of his suit jacket as he watched her walk almost as far as the staircase before she turned to face him again, her dress seemingly floating on the air around her as she did.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

She shook her head, smiling demurely.

He walked up to her, reaching to take her hand in his; he knew if he kissed her again he would not want to stop, and the middle of the marble floor of the foyer or on the staircase was not the place to allow passion to take control.

However, if he thought that he was going to just primly lead her to his bedroom, he was very badly mistaken.

"Oof!" he said as she leapt up, putting her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, nearly causing him to stumble backwards. By sheer reflex he caught her in his hands; it just so happened that it was her bottom that he caught, hands half on bare skin, half on silk and lace.

She grinned impishly. "I didn't put your back out, did I?"

"Not even a little," he murmured.

"Think you'll be able to carry me to your room?"

"Know I will," he said, adoring the feel of her in his arms, pressed against him, soft and warm and curvy.

He scaled the stairs—during which she apologised for not realising he would have to climb quite so many—and went straight for his bedroom. He had barely passed through the threshold when he dove upon her with a kiss, landing them both squarely in the centre of his king-sized bed. He did not want to be hasty, though; as much as he wanted her, he also wanted to relish her. His hand slid up her leg to the hem of her dress, which he then took in his grasp and tugged upwards. She helped in this endeavour by sitting up and allowing him to pull it up and over her head.

"You're beautiful." The breathless words escaped him the moment he'd seen her, full breasts and hips and creamy skin that was like velvet to the touch, and which now was flushing pink in evidence of her self-consciousness; she was bare save for a lacy matching pant set and the shoes, a combination he found oddly sexy. Still blushing, she raised her hand. He thought she was going to run her fingertips over his cheek again, but she instead reached for the next button down on his shirt, flipping it open deftly.

He plucked each of those buttons open with record speed, peeling off his shirt, then undid his belt and zip before divesting himself of those too. As he sat in his undershirt and boxers, toeing off his shoes and socks, he realised she was regarding him with as much curiosity and appreciation as he'd been regarding her. Simultaneously they began to chuckle.

When they then leaned towards one another their laughter quickly faded, replaced by a reignited spark of passion, which leapt out to meet him before his lips even touched hers again. He pulled her to him and into a kiss that escalated faster and more ardently than any before it. With his fingers flitting over her body, her nails raking over his skin, he made love to her, they made love to each other, once, twice… more than he could ever recall making love with a woman in a single evening. It was well into the wee hours before they curled contentedly into each other's arms, her silky hair splayed on his shoulder as he held her close to him. He fell to sleep with her perfume lingering in his consciousness, and a solid, untroubled sleep it was.

…

The distant sound of a telephone ringing stirred Mark from slumber. Behind the drawn blinds the sun was already up and blazing, evident in the way the edges glowed and filled the room indirectly. The ringing stopped. Mark turned over to reach for Bridget.

She wasn't there.

Slightly alarmed, he sat up, looking around himself. He called her name. She came tiptoeing out of the loo dressed in his robe, which seemed three sizes too large for her. She looked tentative, troubled.

"Good morning," he said, determined not to panic and assume that she had regretted staying the night, even though it seemed exactly like that to him.

She offered a small smile. A polite smile. "Morning," she responded.

"Everything all right?"

She nodded, her features slightly distant. "Yeah."

He had not expected things to be this awkward.

"Shall I make us some coffee?" he offered. "You can… shower if you like—"

"Mark," she said abruptly. "How long have you lived here?"

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"How long have you lived here?"

"Um…" He struggled to recall when he had closed on the house. "Four years?"

"And in all this time, _this_ hasn't driven you mad?" she asked fervently.

"I have no idea what you're—"

"_White_," she said, looking apprehensive. "Everything's bloody white! Even this insanely high scary white chair!" She pointed to the chair next to the fireplace, which, to be fair, had a very high back culminating in exaggerated wings. She jumped as if startled when she saw the hearth. "Oh my God. There's a fireplace in here!"

She was agitated about the décor?

"Bridget," he said, as if calming an escaped mental patient. "What are you going on about?"

"And your bed's the size of a landing strip," she went on. "It's huge!"

He tried not to chuckle. "Bridget," he said. "Come here."

"Why?"

"So that we can talk about what's upsetting you."

"I'm not upset," she said, though her tone seemed to indicate otherwise.

He looked at her unblinkingly. "Come here," he commanded.

Sheepishly, she sat on the bed. He moved closer to where she was.

"Are you…" he began, not sure how to delicately broach the subject. "Do you wish you hadn't stayed the night?"

"No," she said emphatically. "I'm sorry. It isn't that at all." She looked around herself. "This is like… all out of a magazine or something. You're just so frighteningly… _adult_."

At that he did burst out with a laugh, pulled her into his arms for a hug. "I just have a bit of a head start, that's all," he said.

"A bit? You have a mansion—"

"It isn't a mansion."

"—and I have a sofa in—" She stopped dead. "Oh, _fuck_."

"What?"

"Tom. I never said goodbye last night."

"It'll be fine," he said, pulling back to look into her luminous eyes. "Surely he knows you're with me."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said. "He doesn't know you like I do. I should probably just give Tom a quick—oh, double fuck!"

"Language, Bridget," he said. "What's wrong?"

She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. "I think I left my handbag at our table last night. With my phone in it."

A quick check of the foyer indicated that she had indeed brought her handbag, but her phone was not in it. "I'm sure it couldn't have fallen out," she said glumly. "I'm sure of it."

He folded her into his arms. It was not exactly how he'd envisioned their first morning together. "It'll turn up," he said. "Don't worry about it." He drew away then took her face in his hands. He was thinking about what to say next… then decided simply to kiss her.

The kiss inevitably deepened, and she was divested of his robe. In the end, he was extremely thankful he had nowhere to be, nothing scheduled in his diary. He could have spent the whole of the day feasting his eyes on the sight of her lovely body… but the amount of physical exertion over the course of the previous twelve hours meant he needed food and really wanted some coffee.

"Mmm," she said contentedly, smiling as she arched and stretched out her arms and legs, forming a graceful curve half-covered by the linens. "I guess I can see the benefits of a landing-strip-sized bed."

He chuckled, propping himself up, running his hand over her abdomen to her hip. "What would you like for breakfast?" he asked.

She looked up to him. "Don't suppose you have chocolate croissants," she asked.

"Sorry, no," he replied. "I'm not sure what I have. We could go exploring in the kitchen."

She grinned. "Okay."

He found a pyjama top for her to wear, which she slipped into as he put on the robe. It was adorable and yet at the same time quite alluring, as the vee neck of the top came down quite low in the front. Together they went down the stairs and to the kitchen. Her reaction to the wall of stainless steel cupboard doors was not unexpected given her earlier statements about frightening adulthood, but in the end, the two of them just started laughing about the ridiculousness of the whole design.

"I suppose it's meant as a deterrent," she said, pulling open a door only to find a washing machine.

"How do you mean?" His contained a pantry with plates and bowls.

"Well, if you can't find the food, you can't bloody well eat it."

He laughed. He loved that she made him laugh so easily and readily.

She yanked open another door. "Ha. Found it," she declared triumphantly. It was in fact the refrigerator. He peered in as she did. It was not a particularly promising collection of food; it appeared a trip to the food market was in order some time in the near future. He'd have to remember to tell the housekeeper to up the amount of food she purchased to accommodate a regular second person. And possibly a few sweets.

"Eggs strike your fancy?" he asked.

"Sure," she said.

First priority was to put the coffee on. Additional searching led them to plates, mugs, silverware, and the French press. He fired up the hob, then brought a frying pan up to temperature, dropping in some olive oil. He then took out a few eggs and cheese, cracked the eggs into a glass bowl, threw in some herbs, salt and pepper as he whisked them together. It all went into the pan, hitting the oil with a great sizzle.

"Smells wonderful."

He looked to where she had perched on a stool at the breakfast nook. She was watching him very intently, a smile playing on her lips.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said playfully. "I just never thought cooking could be so sexy."

He glanced down and back to the eggs, feeling his embarrassment flush over his face. He reached for a spatula to give them a diligent stir. It would not do to serve undercooked eggs and make the both of them sick.

"What's that all about?" she asked, suddenly next to him. He felt her hand on his back.

"What's what all about?"

"The adorable blush," she said. "I find it hard to believe you haven't been called sexy before."

"Well," he said. For the first time in what seemed a very long time, he thought of his ex-wife. "Believe it."

She apparently picked up on his train of thought. "That woman was a fool," she said, leaning in to put her arm around his waist.

It was very difficult to concentrate on cooking breakfast with her leaning into him affectionately. "Bridget," he said sternly. "Hot hob, here."

Holding on to his forearm, she swung around, got up onto her toes and nuzzled into his neck, placing an open-mouthed kiss on his throat, just on his pulse point.

He dropped the spatula.

She began giggling then bent to retrieve it for him. "Five second rule," she said, holding it up. "Not as if your floor isn't clean enough to eat off of."

He smirked.

After a few minutes more to ensure the eggs were not runny and the cheese had melted, he put a portion them on each plate, then poured two cups of coffee, one for each of them.

"Sugar?" she asked as they sat at the breakfast nook.

He was not sure where the sugar bowl was, and admitted as such.

She laughed. "Oh, Mark. Why do you not even know where anything is in your own kitchen?"

He knew she meant it jokingly, but he took it very much to heart. It was rather pathetic to not even know where things were in a room that most people used every day. He poked at his food with his fork.

"Mark?"

He looked back to her.

"I was only kidding."

"Oh, I know."

She stood, then went to him, climbed to sit on his lap and put her arms around him. He accepted and returned the embrace. "Didn't really mean to hit a sore spot," she murmured. "Did she like to cook or something?"

"What?"

"Your ex-wife. Was the kitchen her domain or something?"

At that Mark burst into an unexpected laugh. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm just… we ate out a lot. She couldn't be bothered, and I was usually too busy. I still eat out a lot, or the housekeeper takes pity on me and makes me something nice for when I get home."

"Oh," she said quietly. "Poor Mark. How many years did you suffer married to that witch?"

He realised that he must have neglected to mention how long his marriage had lasted. "Weeks."

"What?"

"Weeks, Bridget. We were married for two weeks before… what happened, happened."

Her mouth dropped into a big, round O. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"Surely you dated for a while beforehand?"

"About a year, year and a half, if you could call dinner and social occasions 'dating'," he said, wondering what on earth had been wrong with him not to see it for the farce it had been. "We didn't spend a lot of time here."

She stroked his face tenderly before her nails combed up through his hair. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Poor, poor Mark." Her lips were suddenly on his for a sweet kiss, then another, then she parted her lips and persuaded him to do the same. It was not so sweet a kiss for long.

She turned on his lap and straddled it, and with her wearing nothing but the pyjama top and Mark clad only in the robe, it rapidly went from snogging to doing something he had never done in the kitchen before. He suspected it would be difficult in future to eat there without a fond smile.

"Thank God," she said, panting into his ear afterwards in a very satisfied manner, "for modern chemistry and the microwave."

He too was thankful for the fact she was on a contraceptive pill, but breakfast was likely tepid, sparking him to say, "Oh, hell."

"It's okay," she said, laughing lightly. "I think you needed that more."

In that instance he came so close to just saying "I love you"… but thought after a single night (well, into the day) of making love, it might appear to her to be too much, too soon. Instead he just smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.

He did locate the sugar bowl as well as the microwave, though there was some doubt at first of the existence of the latter. Bridget declared it a day of major accomplishments as she tucked into breakfast at last. "It's very good," she said, "the food, I mean. You're much better at cooking than I am."

"Again: head start."

It was on the way out of the kitchen after eating that Mark noticed the light blinking on his answerphone. He drew his brows together. He had no idea who might have been calling. "Go ahead and listen," she said. "I'll leave if you like."

"No, that's fine." Whoever it was, he really had nothing to hide from her.

He pressed answer play.

"Bridget." He did not know what startled him more: that it was for Bridget, or that it was a man's voice booming out of his machine. There was a melodramatic pause. "I hope worrying me sick to death, convinced I'd find you in pieces in Hyde Park, was worth it." Another pause; the tone of his voice was somewhat lighter when he resumed speaking. "Hope you're having a nice time, love. And in case you're wondering how I knew where to call, you left your mobile in the flat."

Bridget turned scarlet, but began laughing. "Tom," she managed between breaths.

He smiled too, sure he was equally scarlet.

She punched in Tom's number just to let him know via brief return answerphone message that she was in fact not in pieces in the park, then turned back to Mark. "I could go for that shower now."

He was prepared to allow her to go first, figured he could make the bed, pull some clothes out to wear and otherwise tidy up. However, when he hung back as she entered the bathroom, she turned around and gave him a curious look.

"Towels are in the linen closet," he said, anticipating what he thought her question would be.

"_Mark_," she said. Then with the corner of her mouth quirked upwards, she raised her hand and beckoned him closer with her index finger.

He felt a sheepish smile spread across his face, and proceeded forward.

He very much enjoyed running his soaped-up hands over her body, as much as she seemed to enjoy being washed. She also seemed delighted at returning the favour, deciding that the most efficient way to wash him was to soap up then hold herself against him. He wouldn't have called it efficient by any means, but he did very much like her body sliding against his, his hands slipping over her skin as they kissed then made love again.

He had not been this libidinous before to the best of his recollection, not even when he was her age, and as they towelled themselves (and each other) off afterwards, he considered why that was. It seemed all too obvious: she was young, energetic, and very attractive; however, his attraction to her was not based on her appearance, at least not solely, but in conjunction with and primarily because of her personality and intelligence.

"You're looking very sombre," he heard her say. He turned her eyes to her.

"It's nothing," he said. "I'm not sombre at all. Rather the opposite." He offered her a smile, which seemed to placate her.

"How about we… I don't know. It's a lovely day. Let's go for a walk."

His legs were a little achy after all of their amorous activity, but he smiled and agreed. He found a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt while she slipped her dress from the night before over her head, then smoothed it down in an effort to shake out the wrinkles. "Hm," she said, examining herself in the mirror. "Wet, mad hair and no makeup. Don't suppose you have a pair of ladies' sunglasses lying around?"

He thought she looked lovely, and said so. She pursed her lips, but was smiling too.

"You sort of have to say that, don't you?" she teased.

"What?"

"Well, you know, after shagging me all night long."

He felt his face flush with heat. "I would never just say so," he said defensively.

Her eyes softened. "You mean it."

"Of course I mean it," he said.

She reached and took his hand. "Let's get some air."

In a comfortable silence they strolled around the neighbourhood, beautiful and clean with abundant greenery, her hand cradled in his. He knew at some point they would have to talk about this; he was intensely curious about when her own feelings had developed, whether they were anything as strong as the feelings he had for her.

He could, however, be patient and be happy with what he had in the present.

They stopped in Holland Park to rest on a bench in the shade under a tree. For a July day it was not yet too warm, but it was only barely past noon. He rested back against the bench. She took his hand, raised his arm up and around her shoulders, then leaned back into the crook of his arm. The breeze ruffled through her hair, sending the shampoo fragrance wafting up and tantalising him; somehow it smelled better coming off of her. He tightened his fingers around her shoulders.

"I wasn't sure what you thought about me," she said quietly, unprompted. "I thought you tolerated me at best."

After a few thoughtful moments, he said, "I was very fond of you, but had to walk a very careful line while you were my student. I know that made me seem cold or indifferent at times."

"I knew intellectually that that's what you were probably doing," she replied. "Emotionally was a different story." She paused again, clearly in contemplation. "I don't know if it's because you're older than the other men I've known, but you're… so much more assured of yourself. You know who you are."

"I'm not so sure I do," he said. "Or at least I'm not sure I did. You actually helped me a lot with that."

She went quiet again, rested her head against his shoulder. "What did I do?"

"I had a very narrow view of what my life was supposed to be like," he said. "And even when I was doing what I thought was right for me, it blew up in my face. I was going through my days, going through the motions, and in order to avoid that kind of pain a second time, I kept everyone at arm's length, emotionally speaking. You met Natasha. You've seen what I was working with."

She chuckled. "Yes."

"Then I went to Bangor. I wasn't in the box that was my life anymore. I got a chance to relax the stringent self-imposed rules I'd set. And then I met you… you weren't like anyone else I knew."

"You'd already met me."

"You know what I mean."

Another pause. "Yes," she murmured.

"Besides," he said wryly, "we were neither of us at our best at New Year's."

"What was wrong with me at New Year's?" she asked, sitting up and looking at him.

He laughed. "You were only interested in getting out of Grafton Underwood as quickly as possible, and didn't care the least about irritating me in the car."

"Hmm, I suppose," she conceded, settling back in, "though I wasn't technically out to irritate you."

"Hm," he said. "Yes, you're right, it was probably me. I was much more prone to irritation at the time. I see that now." He leaned and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I can thank you for that, as well."

"For making you less irritable?" she said.

"For helping me to relax a little," he said. "Be a little more at ease with myself. Not be so hard on myself. And to realise that work is not everything."

"Oh," she said. He glanced down to her. She was smiling very subtly.

He took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, looking around them, at the way the leaves blew in the breeze, were dappled by the sun, at the other park-goers walking by, at the clouds moving slowly across the cerulean sky; everything about this moment was perfect, and he wanted to memorise as many details as he could.

"Are you up for more walking?" she asked.

"Well, we do eventually have to walk back to my house."

"I want to show you where my flat will be, if I get it."

There was an odd mixture of emotions at her mentioning the flat. He was glad for her strike out into independence… but there was also a second there where he wanted to just have her come and live with him in his big, lonely house. "Is it near to here?"

"Hm, not strictly. It's by Borough Market. But we could take the Tube for part of it."

He couldn't not think of the last time he'd ridden the Underground. He grinned. "Let's go, then."

They strolled down to the High Street Kensington station; he had his wallet with him so he paid for the Tube. The ride was not long—_probably_, he thought, _no shorter by car_—and they got off at the Monument station.

"It's just over the bridge," she said.

Heading south over London Bridge, he realised the temperature had risen a little. By the time they got to her prospective building, he was parched. He looked up; it was apparently the top flat of a building that was home to a pub. It was not in the greatest neighbourhood or one in which he thought a young woman should be living all on her own, but he wanted to be supportive.

"It's really nice," she went on to say. "It's bigger than I thought it would be, and not open plan, thank God."

"You can afford it?"

"Well," she demurred. "I will just have to be very frugal with money, is all."

"Let's go into the pub," he said. "I'll buy you something to drink."

He had a pint of bitter and she, a cider. He knocked it back far more quickly than he should have, and had another. "Oh you know," she said, "there's a thought."

"What's that?"

"I could maybe work here to make a little extra money."

"Have you ever tended bar or been a server in your life?" he wondered, though the thought of her working in a pub late at night caused his protective instinct to flare up.

"Well… no." She seemed a bit deflated.

He took another sip. "If you can't afford it, maybe you shouldn't take it."

"Oh, I can," she said. "I just… well, I hope I'll get a rise in the very near future."

"You've only been there a month."

"You're being a wet blanket," she said.

"I'm being realistic." He reached and took her hand. Again he just wanted to tell her to just come and move in with him, but it was ridiculous after one night's worth of intimacy; by the same token the thought of her alone in this flat on the other side of the Thames disturbed him. Even more startling was the anticipated sadness of returning to his home all alone, waking without her; how depressing and lonely it would be. It was a testiment to how much he cared about her already.

"You're good at that too," she said after a moment.

"What's that?"

"Being my reality check," she said with a smile.

After their respite they decided to take a different route back to his house, wandering to the London Bridge train station and heading west, transferring just past St James Park at the Bond Street station, then heading on the Tube line and getting off just near Mark's house, at the Holland Park station.

"Will you take me home?" she asked as they approached his house on foot.

He felt dejected; even though he'd spent almost the last twenty-four hours in her company, he did not want to be apart from her. "Of course," he said. "Let's get your handbag."

They went back into the house, which seemed like a cool oasis compared to the summer sun. He retrieved her handbag from the foyer—she hadn't seen the need to carry it on their walk—and as he took the car keys off of the tray on the table, she added, "Perhaps a stop for some chocolate croissants, too."

"Certainly," he said.

As they got in the car, he focused on the task of driving in lieu of the loneliness awaiting him for the rest of Saturday night, at least until Bridget said:

"Mark?"

"Hm?"

"You do realise I meant for a sponge bag and a change of clothes, don't you?"

He turned his eyes to her. She looked amused beyond measure. He started to laugh too.

"I thought maybe you'd had enough of me and my scary adultness for one day," he confessed.

As she drew her fingers over the back of his hand as it rested on the gear shift, she giggled. How he loved the sound of it.

While she put her things together, Mark stood in awkward silence as Tom typed away on his laptop.

"You see, Tom?" she called from the bathroom. "He's not a homicidal maniac."

"He could just be biding his time," Tom called back, then looked up and to Mark's astonishment, winked.

"Ha, ha," she called back.

Tom then asked, his gaze remaining on Mark, "You're a lawyer?"

"Yes."

"So, hypothetical scenario," Tom went on, closing the laptop and setting it down on the coffee table as he rose to his feet. "Would it be considered justifiable homicide if someone were to, say, hurt a friend of theirs whom they think of as a younger sister—"

"Point taken," Mark said. "You would have to get in line behind her father, her mother… and come to think of it, probably my parents too."

Tom smiled a little. "So long as we have an understanding." Tom stared up at him. "You can sit down, you know. I don't bite. At least not without asking nicely."

Mark chuckled. "Thank you," He said taking a seat. "By the way, your show was very, very good."

"Thanks," he said, and his smile was genuine. "The real showstopper is the finale, though."

Mark felt heat creep up his face. "We'll have to come to another show to catch the end."

He watched Tom's mouth purse with amusement.

Bridget's appearance out of the back of the flat saved him further embarrassment. He rose to his feet as she approached him; she now wore blue jean shorts and a tee shirt, and had a large holdall slung over her shoulder. The freedom to just reach out and touch her when he wanted to with other people around was still something of a novelty, so a bit stiffly he leaned into her, put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. "All set?" he asked as he retreated, taking her bag from her.

"Yep," she replied. "Oh, Tom, my mobile."

"Right," he returned, then pointed to the coffee table, where it sat beside the closed laptop. She reached down for it.

"Oh, a message," she said. "Do you mind?" He shook his head. She punched some buttons then put the phone to her ear. She listened for a bit; he watched her face transform to one of great delight. She looked at Mark, then to Tom. "That was Jude. The flat's mine as of the first!"

"Congratulations, darling," said Tom. "Though I'm going to miss you."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," she teased. She slipped the phone into her pocket. "Well, shall we? I'm feeling peckish for supper."

"Leaving me already, are you?" Tom said in a dramatic voice. "I see how it is."

She giggled. "I will be back before I go for good, Tom. After all, I have things to pack." She reached and hugged Tom, pecking his cheek. "See you soon."

He said something too quiet for Mark to hear, which caused her to burst out with a laugh.

They departed from Tom's and returned to the car. He had to admit that he was distracted by the sight of her bare legs, but he was also curious about what Tom had said, and so asked her. She blushed.

"Nothing," she said. "Come on. You promised chocolate croissant for the morning."

He was too delighted by the implication that she was intending on staying over again to press her to tell him. He put her bag in the boot, and they were off towards the food market.

They strode down the aisles together, finding things for supper, snack and breakfast the next day. Their conversation was light and thoroughly enjoyable, but in the back of his mind he could only think of what he'd said earlier to Tom, regarding her parents and his. What _would_ they think? Of course she was an adult and was free to make her own choices, but would they believe that this… whatever it was so far… hadn't begun while in Bangor?

"It is okay, isn't it?" she asked as they drove back towards Holland Park.

"What?"

"My, um, staying for dinner."

He smiled. "Of course it's okay," he said tenderly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You… never mind. I must have been imagining things," she said, turning to face forward.

"Bridget," he insisted.

"I just work entry level in a publishing house," she said eventually. "You're very… well, surely you work sometimes on the weekend too. I don't want to interfere with that."

"Well, Bridget," he said thoughtfully. "It's true that sometimes I do bring my work home with me. Or at least I have in the past." He pulled into the driveway and switched off the car. "Mostly it was to keep my mind off of everything else." He turned to her. "How little of a life I had outside of work. And given the choice on a Saturday night of working or spending my time with you… well. No question. As I said earlier."

She smiled, looking away bashfully, which, given the level of intimacy they'd reached over the last day, was a bit funny. "Oh," she said, reaching down.

"What?"

"You still listen to the CD I made you."

He waited for her to look back before he nodded. "It reminds me of our drives together."

She smiled again, looking almost emotional. He reached and kissed her on the lips briefly. "Come on," he said. "I'm feeling peckish too."

They went into the house, her holdall slung over his shoulder and a carrier bag in each hand. "I'm starting to wish we had just gotten some takeaway," she said ruefully.

"Oh?"

"Mm, though getting to watch you in the kitchen again…" she said, winking at him when he turned to her.

He chuckled, though privately wished they had ordered takeaway, too.

"I'll take my bag upstairs and meet you in the kitchen?" she said, her statement turning into a question.

He nodded again, handing her the holdall. He went into the kitchen with the food, putting away that which needed refrigeration. His eyes then fixed on the breakfast nook and smiled, as he predicted he would with the memory of the morning's activities. This then melded with the memory of her jean shorts and bare legs and…

He went up to the bedroom, where he found she had stopped to primp a bit in front of the bathroom mirror; she was brushing out her hair when she started at his presence. "Thought I said I'd meet you down—"

"Executive decision," he said, taking her into his arms, moving his hands down over her arse and to the skin on the back of her thighs. "Chinese takeaway."

She giggled, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Into the Fire**  
9 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,570 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.  
Typos, etc. etc. are all mine. My proofing over this section was not as careful as previous. I'm distracted today.

* * *

**Chapter 9.**

He dozed for a bit after they'd made love, then rose stealthily from the bed to make a phone call to the takeaway place for delivery. When he returned he slipped beneath the sheets again, savouring the feel of her skin as he touched her once more, warm and smooth. He nuzzled into her neck, which roused her awake with a little laugh.

"You're funny," she said drowsily.

"Why am I funny?" he asked, not ceasing his activity.

"You're worse than boys my own age," she said, turning over and arching into him, sliding her fingers over the small of his back.

"Worse?"

"You're insatiable."

He froze, rearing his head up to look at her. How many boys her own age had she slept with to make such a comparison?

"Mind you," she said as if sensing his unease, "_you_ actually know what you're doing."

He chuckled, pecking a kiss on her lips, then rested back on the pillow to look at her. "I just called for supper."

"Oh, good," she said. "Am downright ravenous now." She raised her fingers and swept them along his face. "I feel like this is too good to be true," she said, then turned bright pink. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said. "I'm quite in agreement."

There was a long moment when they just laid there looking into one another's eyes, unflinchingly and barely blinking; he loved that she could do so without discomfort, without shrinking away, as there was nothing about herself she sought to conceal, unlike other women who had been in his life. He loved that he could feel so free to do so himself.

"When's the food gonna be ready?" she asked quietly.

"They quoted me a forty-five minute estimate for delivery."

"Mmm. Delivery." She smiled, then pushed herself up to hover over him then kiss him. "Even better."

He could not help chuckling between kisses.

"What?" she said, raising up, her hair dangling into his face.

"Now who's the insatiable one?"

She smiled, then chuckled too… but carried on with kissing him, straddling his hips, proceeding with being the instigator in their next round of lovemaking.

He vowed not to doze off again but he must have, because faintly he could hear the doorbell going off. "Damn," he said, raising his head, waking Bridget too as she rested atop him. At her curious look, he explained, "Food's here. I'll get it."

She slid to the side, cheeks pink again. "Sorry."

"Oh, darling," he said, "don't apologise."

She blinked at the term of endearment, one he had used quite without thinking, then reached up to kiss him in such a way that thoughts of supper nearly went by the wayside… but the doorbell went off again rather more insistently than the first time. He forced himself away. She chuckled. "Sorry."

"What did I say about that?" he said, tying closed his robe. "Shall we eat up here?"

"I'll come down there," she said. "We may never eat otherwise."

"Being in the kitchen proved no deterrent," he said over his shoulder as he walked away. He heard her chuckle again.

Just after paying the delivery boy and sending him away, just as he set the food on the table in the foyer, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw her descending the stairs. He was thankful that he had already set the food down, because surely he would have dropped it.

She had come down without anything at all on. It was not as if he hadn't seen her body before, but the juxtaposition of her nakedness with the décor of the foyer was surprising, and surprisingly sexy.

"What if that had been my partner Jeremy from chambers?" he stammered.

"Well, he would have known to bugger off, wouldn't he?"

He couldn't help but laugh aloud. "You're going to get chilled."

"No," she said. "I'll just keep close to you."

With a grin, he picked up the food again, then put his arm around her waist and walked towards the sitting room. She went towards the sofa while he took a blanket from off of the quilt rack and gave it to her. She drew it around her shoulders. He furrowed his brow; he'd thought they'd share the blanket.

"Sit down."

There was something disturbingly authoritative about her voice. With the little white cartons and bamboo chopsticks in hand, he did as she asked. She lowered the blanket under her arms as if it were a bath towel, then held up the corners as she carefully put one knee to either side of his legs, straddling his lap as she sat. She tucked the edges of the blanket around his hips, which left both pairs of arms free to move.

She smiled impishly. "Now we can eat."

How he was supposed to concentrate on eating with her sitting as she was, her bosoms pert and on display, with his robe barely covering himself any longer, was a question for the ages.

"Give me a carton, Mark."

"Right."

With a little juggling, he managed to dole one carton and one pair of chopsticks to each of them.

"Are they both the same?" she asked, peering into hers.

"One's chicken with almond," he said, "and one's beef with broccoli."

Her grin was lopsided as she poked her chopsticks into the chicken, taking out a big chunk then putting it into her mouth with obvious relish. "Oh, very good," she said after chewing. "Much better than what Tom usually gets delivered."

He dug out a piece of beef thick with sauce, not realising quite how hungry he was until he started chewing it. The beef was thinly sliced and very tender. He dug out a second piece and held it up. "Here. Try this."

She smiled. "That's the spirit," she said, then leaned towards his chopsticks. The blanket fell down around her waist as she took the beef in her mouth. "Mmm."

As she righted herself, as she chewed, from her carton she delicately pulled out a chicken chunk with almond slices festooning it and raised it to his lips.

This back and forth went on—feeding himself, feeding herself, feeding each other—until the food was nearly gone. As he held up the last bit from either carton, a hearty chunk of broccoli, and raised it to her mouth, he watched as some of the sauce slid down the stem and dripped right onto her skin, just above her breast, as she closed her mouth around the offered food.

"Mmmph," she said, mouth full, looking down to her sullied skin.

"Why yes," he said, setting the chopsticks into the carton then setting it down beside the other one, "I'd be happy to get that for you."

He put his hands on her waist then leaned forward and placed the flat of his tongue against her skin. She made a high-pitched sound deep in her throat as he licked the sauce from her.

He lifted his eyes up to look at her. She was chewing almost comically quickly.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Eat your vegetables."

She swallowed then said huskily, "Bastard, trying to kill me…" before diving on him with another kiss.

The position in which they were sitting was advantageous for the activity to follow. He didn't think he could find her more beautiful or sensuous, but every time he had her he only wanted her more.

"Damn that Tom," she said quietly after culmination, leaning forward and resting her cheek, her body, against his.

"Hm?" he asked groggily as he pulled the blanket up and over them.

"When we were leaving," she went on. "I said 'See you soon' and he said 'Liar, you'll just shag all day long.'"

He chuckled low in his throat. "But Bridget," he said in a mock-scolding voice. "You must know when you sit on a man's lap like that fully naked that anything you do will turn into a precursor for sex. Even eating dinner."

"It was good," she said dreamily. "So was dinner, come to think of it. Though I've always wondered if you're supposed to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Well, like you're supposed to wait after you eat to swim."

He laughed aloud again, tightening his arms around her, bringing his hand up to stroke her hair, turning his head to peck a kiss into her temple… feeling a great rush of love for her.

She pushed herself up, her brows knit.

"You're not laughing at me, are you?"

"Of course I'm not, darling."

Her features softened again, and she settled back in, her fingers tracing lines on his cheek again before placing a return kiss on the underside of his chin, right on his jawline.

"When you did that before," he asked, "after your graduation, were you coming on to me?"

"What do you think?"

He didn't say anything.

"Mark, when we danced at Patrick's party… I dropped so many hints." She brought her nails down over his collarbone to his chest. "I can't believe you didn't realise I had the biggest crush on you at the end of the term, even though I did my best to disguise it."

He struggled to think when any such behaviour could have betrayed her.

"You did a great job at disguising it," he said. "I never knew." After a pause, he added, "Just like you never knew."

"Never knew…?" she prompted, sitting up again to meet his eyes.

"I've had feelings for you for a while," he said. "I didn't even realise it until Easter. It's only one of those things that I could see with the benefit of hindsight."

She looked dumbfounded. "Easter? Really?"

He nodded. "Surely you noticed how much harsher I was to you after break."

She went silent for many moments. "You're right," she said. "I didn't know. I just thought… I'd done something to make you angry."

"No," he assured. "I was just trying to… walk that fine line. I could not let anyone suspect how much I l—liked you."

He had come too close for comfort there, stopping himself short before saying 'love'; she smiled though, and bent to kiss him tenderly. "I forgive you," she said with a smile.

Considering they were on the sofa with their naked bodies still joined beneath that blanket, he had to laugh. "I would hope so, at this point."

She laughed too.

"I don't know about you," he said, "but I'm sore." At another laugh from her, he added, "From _walking_. And I have a giant bathtub up there that has gotten far too little use."

"I saw that," she said, extricating herself from him then standing up slowly, taking the blanket with her, looking down at him with appreciative eyes. Flushing, he stood and closed the robe. "If you're suggesting a steaming hot bubble bath," she said, "I approve."

After luxuriating in the suds and lavishing each other with kisses and caresses, they retired to bed all warm and pink. She drifted to sleep before they even had an opportunity to make love again, but it hardly mattered. He was content.

…

He woke on Sunday before she did, giving him the opportunity to make coffee for the two of them as well as warming up a couple of the chocolate croissants. He managed to find a tray on which to carry everything upstairs. Upon his return he found she was still fast asleep, hair a tangle on the pillow, duvet pulled up to her waist but laying her chest and shoulders bare. He set the tray down on the bureau, then sat on the side of the bed, reaching to push stray tendrils from her face. She stirred, then opened her eyes, offering him a sleepy smile.

"Good morning," he said.

"Mmm. Morning." She stretched herself out. "Do I smell coffee?"

"You do."

"Do I also smell…"

"You do indeed."

She grinned broadly. "You're going to utterly spoil me," she said.

He smiled too, rising to his feet. "Sit up," he said.

When she did, he handed her a mug and a plate. "Utterly spoil me," she reiterated. "Did I mention?" She then took a big bite of the pastry.

He did not want to admit exactly how much he wanted to spoil her, so he just smiled again and joined her under the covers with his own breakfast.

They ate in relative silence, shy smiles as smudges of chocolate were brushed off lips, and when they were finished he collected the plates and the mugs and rose to set them on the bedside table.

"This time with you has been wonderful," she said. "But I—"

He turned around back to her, dreading the words he feared would come next. She burst out with a laugh.

"I was just going to say 'But as much as I'd like to, I shouldn't spend the entire weekend in your insanely large bed.'"

"Oh," he said sheepishly. "I suppose you have a point." He thought suddenly of the case review he'd planned for the weekend; ultimately though his time had been better spent.

Her features turned somewhat melancholy. "When can I see you again?"

He thought about the week ahead; almost every night promised to run late due to meetings scheduled before he knew he'd want them free. "How about we have lunch on Tuesday?"

She smiled. "I like that idea," she said. "I could meet you somewhere."

"Meet me at my office… well. Where's your office?" To his delight her building was about five blocks away, which meant a very short taxi ride. "Excellent."

She smiled. "Let's have a little cuddle before we get up," she said.

He grinned, sliding back down beneath the sheets, spooning up to her back, holding her in his arms tenderly, his nose buried in her hair. It amazed him how happy such simple contact with her could make him, like he was recharging from all of life's negatives before going out to take on the world. He let out a long, slow breath, his eyes closed. He'd had nothing like this with his ex-wife or with any previous girlfriends, so secure and comforted that he did not even feel pressured to say a word.

After many moments of this, she said softly, "You know, it is early yet. I mean, I don't have to run right home, right now."

He made a sound deep in his throat, one that told of his approval. He did not fall asleep, but it was as close to a meditative state as he had come in some time, his mind free from thought save the contentment he felt. After an indeterminate amount of time, though, she said his name, and she sounded troubled.

"Yes?" he asked, immediately alert.

"On the drive back to Grafton Underwood after graduation, my mother asked me about having a boyfriend."

"That's a natural thing for a mother to ask, isn't it?"

"Yes, particularly my mother." She turned over to look at him. "She wanted to know when she gets to meet him."

"But you and I—" It occurred to him as he began to speak what the implication was, and he stopped short. "Oh."

"Yeah," she said with a lopsided grin. "Oh, not that I presume—I mean, that you are." She blushed bright red.

"Your boyfriend?" He smiled, drawing his finger down over her nose. "I think you would be completely correct in presuming I am."

She offered a shy smile. "Oh, good."

"You're right, though," he said. "I imagine we'll have to say something." She didn't look terrified at the prospect of telling her parents, which he supposed was a good sign. He drew her to him again; he had considered how their families might react, but he thought the burden of explanation would fall squarely with him: _Weren't you her instructor? Isn't she a bit young for you?_

"Eventually," she added.

He chuckled. "I have an idea," he said, hoping to bring the both of them out of the suddenly darker atmosphere that had settled in around them. "Let's go out."

"Where?"

"I'll let you decide," he said, "but the only caveat is that we should stay within London."

"Mmm," she said, sounding brighter. "How about we just strike out and see where we end up?"

Since the weather was supposed to be pleasant, they rose and dressed for an afternoon outside. She suggested they pack a picnic lunch, and together they put together one comprised of some sandwiches, a container of strawberries, and a nice bottle of chilled white wine with glasses. After leaving the house, when Mark headed towards the driver's side car door, she _tsk_ed him.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm driving."

"You're not," he said.

"But you don't know where we're going. It's a surprise."

"Do you have experience driving in London?"

"Hm. No."

"I am very good at taking direction."

The destination was apparently to the northeast, as she directed him through a zigzag through the city. Eventually they landed in a parking spot very near to Primrose Hill. He smirked. "I should have guessed."

"What?"

"Picnic on the hill."

She feigned ignorance. "Don't know what you're talking about."

He had a blanket in the boot, which she must have realised after her car trips with him. She took it into her arms while he arranged the picnic basket and wine bottle between his two hands. "Well, my dear. Lead on."

She followed the path up into the park, searching intently until finding what she deemed to be the perfect spot under a broad, shady tree, also perfect in that it afforded a beautiful view of London. She laid out the blanket triumphantly, then sat down on it.

Lunch was delightful, the weather cooperative—sunshiny but not too hot—and her company relaxing. "How do you know London so well only after a month here?" he asked, sipping on his wine.

"I spent as much of my breaks as I could here in London," she replied. From her position sitting cross-legged on the blanket, she plucked out a strawberry and held up as if she were going take off the point, but drew it away at the last moment to continue talking. "I love my parents but once I'd been living on my own up at uni it was tough to revert back to girl-child-under-parental-rules-and-regulations in a town of fewer than two hundred people." She bit at last.

He chuckled. "I remember all too well what that was like."

"I can't imagine you taking orders from your parents," she said, smiling.

"I can't imagine _you_ taking orders from yours," he retorted. She playfully punched him in the arm. "But I did," he went on. "Very obedient child. I am in many ways, actually."

"It's sweet," she said.

"To be an obedient child?"

"No," she said with a laugh. "To still dote on your mother like you do."

"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "Other people… well, frankly, they were mostly women… they would always intimate it was a bit creepy."

"Natasha?"

"Even if she thought that, she never would have even hinted such a thing. She was too keen to insinuate herself into my family."

Her smile softened. "Well, I think it's sweet."

"So you said."

She pushed her hair back behind her ear, smiling at him a little more broadly. It was hard not to smile back.

When they finished eating, they packed the picnic basket back up and laid on the blanket, side by side, looking up into the clouds. She then popped up into the periphery of his vision, lowering herself and planting a chaste kiss on his lips before lying down again, resting her head on his outstretched arm. They talked about music, books, even a little theatre and politics, enough to get to know one another better, and nothing too serious, even when they didn't agree. Before too long, though, he knew they would have to head to their respective homes.

She'd put her overnight bag in the car so that he could take her home afterwards. They'd agreed it was efficient and would probably help keep their weekend schedule on course.

She turned the key in the door, stepping in gingerly. "Tom might still be sleeping," she explained quietly.

"Bridget, it's almost three in the afternoon."

She shrugged. "Tom's a bit of a night owl."

As the door came to a quiet close behind them, the pair of them jumped as Tom's voice boomed out, "There you are."

They spun to face Tom, who was tucking his shirt into his jeans and looking at the pair of them with scrutiny.

"Hi Tom," said Bridget brightly; in fact, it was too bright, almost over-compensatory.

Mark saw the stern look, but the longer the silence went on, the more Tom looked almost like he was trying to suppress a laugh. "Well, I see that you haven't been butchered at all," Tom said at last to Bridget. "Nailed, perhaps, but not butchered."

"_Tom_," she said, laughing but blushing all the same.

Passing by the two of them, Tom threw himself down on the sofa, reaching for a can of beer that he must have already put there for himself. Mark's eyes went to the screen and he nearly gasped; how could he have forgotten it was the World Cup?

He knew the question was rhetorical even as he thought it.

"Mark?" Bridget asked, alarmed by his response. "Are you okay?"

"You're a football fan?" Mark asked Tom.

"Absolutely," said Tom. "Just getting settled in for the match."

The commentators were engaged in a speculative debate about the oncoming game. Without conscious thought Mark found himself sitting on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward to hang on to their every word, having stripped himself of his shoes without even realising it.

"Fancy a beer?" asked Tom as he opened his own.

"Um," he said, "I shouldn't. I really need to…" He drifted off as his focus returned to the arguments being presented, and how absolutely absurd an opinion it was to think—"That's complete short-sighted crap," he blurted angrily. "Sure, they might have had a good run last match but Thomson and Vickers have let it all go to their heads, and when they do that—"

"They fuck it up," supplied Tom with brutal honesty, leaning back into the couch cushion laconically, tipping his beer up.

"Yes. _Yes._ That's it exactly. And the Italians know it. You just watch; they'll come in, lead us on for a little while, then deliver the death strike."

Bridget asked in a weird tone, "I'll get you a beer, shall I?"

He turned to her; she almost looked forlorn. "No, no, it's all right," he said, patting the sofa beside him. "Come sit with us and—" His head whipped around at the sound of undeserved praise being heaped on Thomson again. "What bollocks! As if he can do no wrong. Jesus, I don't know if I can take it. Where did they _find_ this imbecile?"

"Shag a couple of players and suddenly you're an expert on football, apparently," Tom said wryly.

At this Mark laughed, relaxing back into the sofa too. He decided just then there was no reason he couldn't stay and watch the match for a bit. He'd had every intention of watching, anyway, and it was much more enjoyable watching with others. "Hm. Think I'll have that beer, after all." He got to his feet. "The kitchen?"

Bridget and Tom both pointed in the direction of the far side of the room in which they were sitting. "Right. And the loo's that way?"

"Yup," said Tom, reaching forward and breaking into a bag of crisps.

When he returned with a beer he found that Bridget had taken residence on the sofa, between where he'd sat and where Tom was. She was idly picking at the crisps too. Within minutes the players were trotting out onto the pitch. Mark felt unaccountably unsettled, but nothing to do with anything but pre-game nerves. If England wanted to stay in, they had to—

"So who's on again?" Bridget asked.

"England," said Mark, just as Tom said,

"Italy."

"And Italy's good, are they?"

"Very," said Tom.

"We haven't a hope in hell unless those two—_Jesus_, Italy's going for blood already."

The Italians had already scored.

"What just happ—?" began Bridget.

Simultaneously the two of them shushed her.

She sat back on the sofa and folded her arms over her chest, looking sullen in that moment in which Mark turned to look at her. He leaned back and put his arm about her shoulders, or at least tried, but he got so caught up in the excitement of a rush to the goal by England that he jerked forward again.

Sometime after that Mark realised she had gone, also realising the match was almost halfway over, that he'd had two beers and shouldn't drive any time soon.

"Bridget?" he called, just as Tom was pulling out a cigarette and preparing to light it. "Oh, Tom, do you mind taking that by the window? I don't do well with smoke."

"Oh, yeah," he said, looking to the cigarette as if it had magically appeared there. "Just automatic, I guess. Sorry." As Bridget appeared, Tom added, "Her smoking doesn't bother you?"

His surprise must have registered on his face; he'd forgotten all about it even though they'd talked about it at the drinks party. "Well, she… um…."

Tom burst out laughing. "Didn't even pause for a post-coital ciggie, Bridge?"

"Shurrup," she said, tinting pink. Mark thought he felt his own face flush. "You owe me, you know."

It took him a moment to realise she was addressing him, and he said "Me?" rather stupidly, even as his attention was drawn back to the game as it resumed.

"Yes," she said. "Our second day together and you're watching the football."

"I invited you to sit with me," he said in his own defence. "And what does it matter when I was going to go home anyway?"

She pursed her lips, but ultimately could offer no rebuttal. "You still owe me."

"Stay for supper," said Tom. "We'll get some pizzas or something. It'll be fun."

"Sure," he said. "And Bridget can decide what will make things right after this unfair abandonment."

"I already know," she said, taking a seat just as Tom rose to smoke at last.

"And what would that be?"

"I want a game of Monopoly."

Mark laughed; it was adorable that she would only want a silly game in exchange for forgiveness. He could think of no other woman he knew who wouldn't attempt to extort him for something very pricey.

"Oh Christ," said Tom darkly.

"What? Why 'Oh Christ'?" asked Mark.

"She's brutal," he said, "and I won't play against her anymore."

"Tom!"

He thought it over. "Tom, surely we two would have an advantage over her."

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Tom went over to the window and threw it open.

He glanced to Bridget again, who he could tell was trying to affect her most innocent look. "You're on," he said. She beamed maniacally. "Tom has to play too."

"What? No way," said Tom.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Mark said. "How hard can it be?"

Bridget's grin went positively evil. Tom stared in wonder.

"Have you actually ever played Monopoly?"

"Well," he said, demurring, "no. But I know the premise."

"I'm definitely in then," said Tom, who took a long drag, then exhaled out the window. "If I lose at least I won't be in absolute last place."

It worried him a little to see her wring her hands in the manner of a dastardly cartoon villain. The football match was resuming, though, and as Mark and Tom fell head in again, Bridget disappeared then reappeared with a tatty old Monopoly game. She may also have disappeared to smoke, but he was so enthralled by the excitement of the game he honestly couldn't say she had. He would have words with her about that later.

In the end, to their shock and delight, the game was a win for England, which meant spirits were high for the ordering of the pizza. "It's on me," said Mark, who was in a very good mood indeed.

Bridget smiled and bounced onto the sofa, her legs across his lap, her arms around his neck, and leaning forward to plant a kiss on his lips.

"You're just glad the match is over, aren't you," he said drolly, fighting off a smirk.

"Yes." She smiled, looking into his eyes. "Pepperoni."

"What?"

"That's what I want on my pizza."

"All right then."

"Tom," she called loudly. "Phone for some pizzas."

After it arrived they ate the pizza and laid out the Monopoly board. Bridget declared she would be the banker and insisted on being the Scottie dog.

"Stud," announced Tom, reaching towards and indicating his preference for the horse and rider playing piece.

She picked up the top hat and placed it beside her own.

"I get the top hat?" asked Mark.

"Yes."

"Why?" he asked.

"It just suits you," she said.

"The race car doesn't?" he asked, the hint of a tease in his voice.

"No," she said solemnly. He resolved at that moment to let her win.

The game was more intense than he could imagine a board game could be. Before too long, Bridget had proved herself as not needing help to win at all, acquiring the most lucrative properties, putting houses then hotels on them, and quickly taking Mark and Tom for everything they were worth. Within an hour she had won the game, and she smiled proudly.

"I told you," said Tom.

The hour was still relatively early. "One more game," Mark insisted. As much as he delighted in her glee in winning, now that he'd gotten a hang of game play, he thought he could do better.

"I never would have pegged you a masochist," quipped Tom.

The second game, Mark held his own, and had bought a collection of downscale properties that had a better chance of being landed on (and therefore collecting him more money).

"Typical upper middle class," Bridget teased. "Buying up all the low rent properties."

"Are you calling me a slumlord?" Mark retorted playfully.

"I didn't say a thing."

At one point, Bridget managed to land herself in jail. She looked to Mark and batted her eyelashes. "I know a very good lawyer who could bail me out."

She certainly did not lack the funds to make the £50 bail. He raised a brow. "I'm sorry," he said, holding his hands up. "All of my money's invested in my slums."

She leaned over the board and brushed her lips over his. "Please?" she said. He heard Tom chuckling. He was just resolving to stand his ground when she kissed him properly, then sat back looking put-upon. "Please?" she begged again plaintively.

Without another word he picked up a £50 note and tossed it into the middle, securing her release. She grinned, and play resumed.

A short time later, immediately after she had landed on Free Parking and had taken up the pot in the middle, Mark himself wound up in jail. He looked at her. "Time to return the favour."

"What?"

"Bail me out."

She snorted a laugh and winked. "You're on your own, slumlord."

"Told you she was cutthroat," said Tom blithely.

This game lasted much longer. After bailing himself out of jail he vowed to match her move for move, and when she landed on one of his most expensive properties (of which he owned all in the colour block), loaded with hotels, a good chunk of her monetary reserves were handed over to him with a glum expression.

"I'm not going to lose this game," she declared.

Within another few rounds, she rebounded by wiping out Tom financially after he landed on Mayfair.

"That's it, then," Tom said. "Let's tally up and see who won. I only know it wasn't me."

Bridget met Mark's eyes with a challenge. It was hard to tell from a casual glance who had more cash. "Let's keep going," he said, as she nodded.

"You two are well-suited: you're both totally mental," Tom said as he rose. "I'm outta here."

They continued to play for how long, Mark didn't know. Tom had owned very little in the way of property, and after he exited the game they agreed to put it back on the market. Mark took most of what he'd had, including the railway stations.

Mark was brought to the present by surprising himself with a yawn. He only then realised it was dark outside. He glanced to his watch. It was one in the morning, and he still had papers to review. He cursed under his breath.

"Bridget," he said. "We're at a stalemate. Can we just call it a draw?"

"No. Let's count now and see."

They did. Her money totalled to only £20 more than his, which was enough to make her the official winner. She grinned.

"You barely won," he said.

"But I still won," she said, obviously gloating.

"You are mental," he said, then got to his feet. Her expression clouded over.

"Oh, Mark. It's just a game, I know that."

"You didn't bail me out."

She smiled. "Oh, come on. I would if you really were in jail, if I could afford it… and if I couldn't I'd find a way to. Come on." She patted the cushion beside her. "Sit back down."

"I have to go," he said.

"Well, at least and sit give me a cuddle before you go."

It was too much to resist. He took a seat again, held out his arms and drew her close, giving her a kiss before closing his eyes and relaxing into her.

It was his undoing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Into the Fire**  
10 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,264 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Any typos or missing words are entirely my own fault. If you find any, please send me a PM (don't put it in a review) and I'll fix 'em.

* * *

**Chapter 10.**

It was the sunlight that woke him, and he blinked rapidly, trying to remember where he was, what day it was… was the game playing a dream? He saw the game board left as it had been last night and knew it was no dream. He pushed himself up; Bridget was with him, sleeping as well, and his movement caused her to stir. His watch revealed that it was nearly nine in the morning.

"Oh, _fuck_," Mark said, getting to his feet. He was not usually one to use vulgarity, particularly that vulgarity, but he had not only not reviewed his papers for the day—a first for him, to be so unprepared for Monday morning—but was certain to miss the ten o'clock meeting he was scheduled to attend. And Bridget… surely she was already late for work.

"What is it?"

"It's late," he said. "It's nine."

"Oh, oh, damn," she said, pushing herself upright. "I'm so sorry."

It was not as if it were her fault. He shook his head. "I really must leave." She stood too. He embraced her, giving her a quick peck. "I'll call you later," he said, patting his trouser pockets to ensure he had everything he'd come with (wallet, keys, mobile), then hurriedly departed for his vehicle.

On the way downstairs, he phoned Jeremy to let him know he was running late. "Sit in at the meeting for me," he said. "I'm a little… under the weather."

After a pause, Jeremy said, "Mark, in all the time I've known you, you've never been under the weather." It was not precisely what he said, but the tone in which he said it. Somehow, Jeremy must have suspected the real reason for his tardiness, confirmed when he added, "Unless 'the weather' is code for your twenty-one-year-old—"

"Goodbye, Jeremy," he said curtly, then disconnected the call.

He went to his house, had a fast shower, shaved then dressed in his suit. Examining himself in the mirror, he saw that he looked a little weary but not unusually so. It would have to do. He had other commitments to meet that day.

He made it to the office nearly an hour into the meeting. Upon his arrival, he apologised profusely, and asked if they could have a brief recess so that Jeremy could bring him up to speed. The other attendants seemed grateful for the break and shot out of the room, presumably for the loos, a cigarette, and so on. After a quick briefing, Jeremy grinned. "Need the loo myself. Can I get you anything? Some coffee? You look a bit on the rough side."

"Coffee, please," he said. He had not had time to make any.

"Will do." Jeremy did not seem to be making a move to leave.

"Yes?"

"There's nothing else you want to tell me?"

"Not right now, no," he said.

"Aha," Jeremy said triumphantly. "Tantamount to admitting you _want_ to tell me something. Later. Lunch, my treat."

"Fine," he said, resignation heavy in his voice. Jeremy then ducked out with the biggest grin on his face as the others filed back in.

The rest of the meeting went quickly. Jeremy continued to run it as he was already on a roll. Mark nursed his coffee and took notes, grateful for Jeremy's taking charge, because he could not honestly say he was all that focused on the subject at hand. He could think only of the weekend, of a woman he had grown to love expressing feelings for him, of spending time with her, and especially of taking her to bed.

"What'll it be?"

Jeremy's question jarred him back to reality. "What?"

"For lunch."

"Oh, the usual place is fine," he said, thinking of the pub they frequented. "I could use a good solid English meal."

Jeremy smirked. "Come on."

The interrogation did not begin until after their chicken pasties had arrived.

"So, Mark," asked Jeremy in a confidential tone. "What happened this weekend?"

Mark stared hard at his pint. "I went out on Friday night with… my twenty-one year old, as you like to call her."

"And does she have a name?"

"Bridget."

"And is she _your_ twenty-one year old now?"

"We, um. Yes."

Jeremy grinned with obvious vicarious pleasure, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his chest like a proud father. "Well done, my friend. How was it?"

"Jeremy," he said. "Despite what you think, it was not all about sex."

"Yes, and you look wrecked because you didn't stay up all night shagging."

"As a matter of fact, no, I did not," he said. "Monopoly."

"What?" Jeremy asked, looking as if Mark had just shouted that aliens had landed.

"After watching the match with her roommate Tom—"

Jeremy raised a brow. "'Roommate'?"

"He's gay. Anyway, we had supper and stayed up playing Monopoly until about one in the morning. Then we fell asleep on the sofa."

Jeremy still looked dubious.

"Believe me or don't, it's the truth."

Jeremy pulled the corner of his mouth up. "When do I get to meet this Bridget of yours?"

"We've been together for fewer than three days."

"You're obviously smitten. Or something." He waggled his brows.

Mark regarded him thoughtfully. "We're supposed to have lunch tomorrow. She's meeting me at the office. If you're there, you must swear to be on your best behaviour."

"I'll be a perfect angel."

Mark grinned. "Right."

Mark was able to regain his focus after lunch, and more than made up for missing the morning by staying until seven. With his briefcase packed full of more papers to review, he headed for home.

He was surprised to find his porch was occupied.

"Bridget?" he asked, thankful at least it was not yet dark. "What brings you here?" She looked despondent sitting there, her hair tousled, her posture slumped, but she said nothing. He wondered if she and Tom had had a falling out, if she'd had a bad day at work. He reached his hand down to her to help her to her feet. "Come on inside. Have you had supper yet?"

She shook her head, rising to stand with his assistance.

He let the both of them in, set his keys and briefcase down, and turned back to her.

"What's the matter?"

"I couldn't bear the thought of you angry at me."

"Angry?" he asked. "What makes you think I'm angry?"

"I made you late for work. You left so quickly, said so little and barely kissed me goodbye."

"I was in a bit of a rush… I had a meeting at ten that I was completely unprepared for."

"Oh God," she said, even more morosely than before. "I'm sorry."

"Why do you keep apologising? You didn't hold me there against my will."

"I just…"

"What?"

"I only wanted to do Monopoly because I didn't want you to leave… but I didn't mean to muck up your workday."

He smiled, touched by the admission. He then reached to embrace her. "Darling," he said close in her ear. "I'm not angry. I had a great time with you, and falling asleep was an accident. Besides, there's more to life than over-preparing for work, particularly when a pretty girl wants me to stay."

At that she chuckled. "What can I say?" she said. "You're good company."

He brought his hand up to run it through her hair, turned his head to kiss her on the cheek; overcome with feelings for her, he reared his head back to kiss her properly on the mouth, which quickly turned quite passionate.

"So how hungry are you, anyway?" she murmured into his ear.

"Depends on which appetite you're talking about," he replied.

She drew back and took him by the hand, then pulled him upstairs and into his bedroom. "Since we're brand new," she explained, putting her arms around his neck again, "and I didn't get anything but a kiss or two since Sunday morning."

"You're counting?"

She smiled. "Not in so many words, no, but…" She drifted off, then started kissing him again. His arms came up and around her waist, hooking into her trousers, coming round to the front to find the button. This made her break away and laugh. He furrowed his brows. "Ticklish."

He smiled too, then proceeded not only with the button, but with making love to her.

Afterwards, as they cuddled up together side by side in bed, she said quietly, "I have another confession."

"Oh?" He kissed her forehead.

"I thought maybe you were harbouring some resentment that I didn't bounce you out of jail."

He was confused before remembering the game, and fought to keep his features free from expression. "That was deeply disappointing," he said sombrely. "After all I taught you about human rights, and how inhumane it is to let the innocent languish in prison…" At her shocked look, he burst out in a laugh, unable to hold it in anymore.

"Bastard," she said playfully, smacking him lightly on the shoulder.

Residually laughing, he said, "As you said, it's only a game. But come to think of it… I might have to devise some sort of punishment for you for that…"

"I dare you," she said.

"You dare me, do you?" he asked, raising a brow. "I think I might have to take advantage of a little secret you revealed earlier."

She furrowed her brow. He reached to lightly brush her waist. She shrieked and arched away from him.

"Ticklish, indeed." He pulled her back to him, arm like an iron band around her waist, as he nuzzled into her neck and looked for another ticklish spot.

"You're evil," she gasped.

"You made me that way," he said, ceasing tickling her, and kissing her properly on the lips again. Once again he felt himself come close to telling her that he loved her, but thought it wise to hold back; three days was not much better than one. "Come on," he said gently. "I was planning on making some pasta for supper. I want you to stay."

"I'm useless in the kitchen."

"You aren't," he said. "If nothing else, you're good company."

She kissed him again at his echo of her own words; he thought maybe they'd never get down to the kitchen to make supper, but she drew away. "Sorry."

"Why?"

"I can't believe you didn't hear my stomach just now."

He laughed.

After restoring their respective articles of clothing, they went down to the kitchen to begin preparations. It appeared that the housekeeper had restocked the kitchen, even though he had not had a chance to ask her to buy some additional groceries for Bridget. They had the makings for pasta dinner, and even had a bunch of fresh tomatoes and some basil as well as a block of parmesan. Mark took to chopping tomatoes and asked her if she could grate the hard cheese for him.

Up on the first floor, Mark could hear the doorbell ring at precisely a point when it was impossible for him to get it; his hands were covered in tomato and he was waiting for the water to boil for the pasta. He remembered at that moment that he was expecting a courier delivery of some court documents. "Bridget, could you go and sign for that for me?"

"Sure."

She brushed cheese off of her hands then dashed up the stairs. "Oh!" he heard her say, presumably after swinging the door open.

He then heard a man's voice in response, though he could not quite make out what was being said.

Concerned, he hastily wiped his hands on a kitchen towel then went upstairs to see what was going on. He stopped in his tracks when he saw who Bridget had let in: his old Eton mate, her old professor, Patrick Baldwin. Next Mark looked to Bridget, and only then realised how dishevelled she looked, clothing slightly wrinkled and askew, hair not the least bit smooth as it usually was, cheeks rosy, lips full and pink from being kissed. That combined with the undoubtedly guilty look on his own face told Patrick everything about what had been going on.

"Patrick," he said rather stupidly. "You're in London."

"Yes," he said. "Thought I'd drop in and take you out for supper, but you're clearly… busy." Patrick shot a look to Bridget again, who nervously patted down her hair, before he turned his gaze to Mark once more.

"We were making supper," said Mark. "Pasta."

"Does she come over for supper frequently?" he asked coolly.

"Is there some reason I can't have her over for supper?" Mark asked in return.

"I'm right here, you know," she said.

"Bridget, if you could go tend to the water—"

"You're trying to get rid of me," she retorted, "and I'm going to be a part of this conversation. Yes, Profess—er, Patrick, I'm here for supper." She slipped her arm around Mark's waist. "I've also been here for breakfast after staying over. There's nothing wrong with that."

Patrick gave Mark an icy glare. Apparently the theoretical opinion differed greatly from the reality. "You know how I feel about—"

"Yes, I do," he said quickly. He looked down to her. "Bridget. Please go downstairs."

She blinked in surprise at his bluntness, but she released him then in silence retreated to the lower floor.

Mark continued. "Circumstances have radically changed."

"So she's aged a decade?"

"That's not what I mean. She isn't a student of mine now, and nothing happened while she was. We have a shared family history and knew each other before class ever commenced."

"But the bulk of your relationship has taken place at Bangor."

"That doesn't matter to either of us. She does not see me that way, as someone with an unfair power and influence over her."

"Even though you just ordered her out of the room?"

"I didn't want her to be inadvertently hurt or embarrassed, and I wanted an honest conversation."

Patrick pursed his lips. "And how _do_ you see her?"

"I see her as a smart, intelligent, caring, outspoken, beautiful woman who seems to know what I need even when I don't." He lowered his voice. "Stay for supper with us. You'll see you're wrong."

Patrick looked sceptical, but agreed.

There was another knock at the door.

"Expecting more for supper?"

Mark shook his head. As he answered the door, he almost laughed out loud. It was the courier, about whom he had completely forgotten. He signed for the documents, though didn't expect he'd be reviewing them that evening, after all. "It's for work," he explained as he set them on the table in the foyer. They descended the stairs. Mark then asked, "So what brings you to London, anyway?"

"Visiting Dad," he said. "I like to spend some time during my breaks with him."

Mark noticed that Bridget was standing in the kitchen, looking uncertain about what to do with a pot of boiling water sending a column of steam towards the ceiling on one burner and bubbling tomatoes on their way to becoming sauce on another. He went towards her, stirring the tomatoes up, sprinkling basil and oregano into the mix. "Keep stirring this," he instructed gently, his hand on her waist, pressing a kiss into her hair. He then moved towards where he hoped the uncooked pasta would be. He glanced back to her; she was still pouting a bit from being sent downstairs, but was also clearly baffled by the ordinary nature of the conversation that had accompanied them down.

"How is your dad?" asked Mark, thwarted in the first cupboard and moving to the second. "I don't think I've seen him since we were boys."

"He's fine," he said, taking a seat on one of the breakfast nook stools. "I'm gonna take him fishing tomorrow. I'll visit my mum next. She's been living in the country since the split."

"Split?"

"Yeah," he said. "Mum and Dad divorced shortly after I left for uni."

"How's Lily?"

This from Bridget. They both turned to look at her.

"She's doing very well," said Patrick. Mark detected a little bit of a thaw from his friend.

He also detected a bit of a return to normalcy in her, too. "So you're still seeing her?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "She's very sweet. She's had a bad run romantically so I'm trying to be very careful and not screw it up."

"I'm glad. I really did like her. Do like her. Though I didn't know her very well."

"I asked her to come," he said, "but she couldn't because of the shop."

"But she would have wanted to?" Bridget asked brightly.

"She really wanted to."

Bridget grinned. "I'm glad."

With that the former professor-pupil pair began to catch up as contemporaries, he asking her how her new job was going since he hadn't really gotten a chance before, and she asking how Bangor had been holding up in the week since graduation. Mark stayed out of the conversation, finishing up supper then serving and bringing it to the table.

"Unbelievably, unseasonably hot right now up there," he said. "I'm glad for the break down here, to be honest."

"Wine?" asked Mark.

"Yes, thanks," said Patrick.

"I'll have white." Bridget.

He was already pouring hers. "I'm one step ahead of you, my dear."

Bridget continued, "I've heard it can sometimes get freakishly hot up there in the summer."

"It's certainly doing so this year," he said. "Thanks, Mark."

He set the wine glasses down, then sat with Patrick to his left, Bridget to his right. "Well, enjoy."

Bridget heaped parmesan onto her plate of spaghetti, then began to eat. She was clearly appreciative. "You missed your calling, Mark. Very tasty." She reached her left hand out as if to touch his, but then seemed to think better of it, probably because of Patrick.

"Thank you." He reached, took her hand and squeezed it before letting go again.

"Don't you like parmesan?" She indicated the cheese to Patrick.

"Yes," he said, as if being prodded back to reality. He took the spoon and did the same.

"Very good indeed," said Patrick after a taste of the cheese-laden spaghetti dish. "And aside from the job, what else has been going on?"

"Well, I just landed a flat of my own."

"Good for you," said Patrick. "I hope it's not some crappy open plan basement room."

"No, a friend of a friend of a friend needed to sublet." She sipped her wine. "Oh, and I took Mark to a drag show on Friday night."

Patrick dropped his fork and looked to Mark in utter disbelief. "A… drag show?"

"You know," she said. "Men dressed up like women and performing—"

"Yes." Patrick was laughing now. "I know what a drag show is. The thought of Mark at one…"

Mark chuckled too. "It was quite good," he said. "Bridget's friend Tom was superb as Raven, and the food was in itself worthy of a visit. Excellent."

"Particularly the fudge brownie." She caught his gaze knowingly.

He smiled. "Agreed."

"Only a matter of time before he's got Mark up there singing along," said Bridget to Patrick.

"We would look rather dashing together," said Mark. Patrick chuckled. Bridget was acting completely like herself again, and for the most part, so was Patrick. Mark believed the former had much to do with the latter, even as Patrick still seemed very surprised at the direction the conversation had taken.

"You all James Bond-y in your suit," she added playfully, leaning into him, her hand on his forearm.

"Oh, well, if I'm not in an evening gown, then forget it."

At that she laughed, and it was so joyful and spontaneous he laughed too; for a moment he forgot that Patrick was there and just leaned forward to place a sweet kiss on her lips. They both seemed to remember at once that they had company, though, and sat back in their chairs; Bridget flushed bright pink and Mark made much of trying to get the rest of his pasta wound on his fork.

When Mark dared to raise his eyes again, he saw that Patrick's expression had gotten much softer, much more amenable. He too finished his pasta, then drank the rest of his wine. The three of them cleared the table and there was a consensus that coffee should be made.

"I might have biscuits in one of these drawers," Mark said as he put together the decaf to brew.

"You might have Amelia Earhart in one of these drawers," Bridget teased. "Who would ever know?"

Patrick snorted a laugh.

"It isn't my fault," Mark said in his own defence. "These cupboards and drawers all look the same."

"It's true," she said. "You're getting better, the more time you actually spend in the kitchen." She popped up onto her toes to peck his cheek. "Be right back." She went off in the direction of the loo.

"Well, my friend," said Patrick quietly once the door had closed behind her. "I've seen the light."

"Excuse me?"

"Bridget," he said. "You love her. It's as clear to me as the nose on my face."

Mark was stunned at this observation.

"I can't imagine you laughing along like you did about drag shows with anyone else," Patrick went on to say. "You'd've taken their head clean off. Well, that and the fact that you actually went to one…" He winked.

"I'm glad you see that," he said uncertainly, "though do you think she knows?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well it's only been a few days," he said. "I don't want to come on too strong."

"A few…" He drifted off as he did the mental math. "The drag show was your first date?"

"It didn't really start out as a date," he admitted. "It ended as one, though."

Patrick whistled. "You weren't pulling my leg during graduation weekend."

"I wasn't."

"A drag show," he said again. "How… _romantic_."

Mark laughed. "Well, the brownie _was_ very good."

"I don't want to know. For what it's worth," he confided, "I don't think I've ever seen her happier, either."

It had not occurred to him that Patrick was in a unique position to tell Mark such a thing. "Oh?" he said eagerly. "Do you think—"

He broke off as the door reopened and Bridget headed towards the kitchen again.

"Yes," said Patrick. "I do think."

"What do you think?" asked Bridget, eyes wide and especially blue. "What did I miss?"

"That biscuits are necessary," lied Patrick smoothly. "Let's find them."

Once the sugar bowl had been located on Saturday morning, it was easy to find again, and Mark went straight for it before pouring three mugs of decaf, leaving room in one, then topping it up with milk.

He carried the tray bearing the mugs and the sugar to the sitting room, setting it on the coffee table just as Bridget proclaimed they had discovered the chocolate biscuits.

"A triumph," said Patrick, taking a soft armchair, then reaching for a biscuit. "A fantastic end to a fantastic evening."

"I agree," said Mark, taking a seat on the sofa. No longer apparently shy about being affectionate in front of her former English professor, Bridget joined him there, tucking her legs up and leaning against Mark.

"Excellent coffee." She sipped again. "Fantastic indeed." She reached for a biscuit, grabbing two. "Want one?"

"Sure."

She raised it to his mouth then let go as he bit into it. She laughed as he took it his fingers then actually took a bite.

"Mm," he said after chewing. "Only a little bit stale."

"That makes 'em better," she said. "Not quite so shatter-y in your mouth that way."

"Oh!" said Patrick; for a moment Mark thought he was impressed by the stale-biscuit revelation. "I was driving from Bangor during the match yesterday. I heard the results, couldn't believe it. Did you watch?"

"Yes," he said excitedly. He could not see Bridget rolling her eyes, but could sense her doing so all the same. "The commentators as they always do were going on and on about Vickers, Thomson and the lot and, well, just the sort of thing that puffs their egos up unbearably—"

So deep into description and analysis did they get that when Patrick stopped talking suddenly, it surprised him that it was because Bridget had dozed off against his shoulder.

"I suppose I ought to go," Patrick said, sotto voce. "It's already sort of late, and fish wait for no man. I'll let myself out." He got to his feet, and in a friendly manner gave Mark a pat on the shoulder. "It is good to see you so happy," he said, "considering your state when you first got to Bangor."

"Keep in touch," said Mark, "and call me again if you're still free while you're here."

He grinned. "Mark, you've been seeing her for—" He paused to count the days. "Three days. You're still in that swoony, honeymoon-esque stage. You don't need me calling you."

Patrick may have had a point. "Feel free to call me anyway."

Patrick gathered up his things then, with a little wave, headed for the front door. Once he heard it close behind him, he made to rouse her.

"Hm? Is it morning?" she asked, blinking sleepily.

"No, darling. Patrick's just gone."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Fell asleep."

"We noticed. It's late. Maybe I should get you home."

"Maybe I could just stay with you."

He cupped her face in his hand then kissed her. "That would not hurt my feelings," he said, then added, "but I actually do need to sleep."

She chuckled. "Yeah, I know."

They took a shower with water as hot as they could stand it, then retired to the bed. "Darling," he said as she towel-dried her hair, "maybe you ought to keep some things here. Just in case."

"Like what?"

_Like everything_, he thought, as she added,

"Toothbrush? Pants? Nightgown, change of clothes, that sort of thing?"

"Mm," he said low in this throat, slipping under the covers and resting back on the pillow; the fatigue of the day seemed to catch up with him all at once, and he closed his eyes. "Yes. Well, maybe not the nightgown."

He heard her chuckle, felt the mattress sink beside him, and realised how much he liked her being there even if it was just to sleep at night. Her fingertips traced along his forehead, then his cheeks.

"It's isn't too much for you, is it?" Her voice was serious.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, me, I mean. I'm twenty-one."

He cracked an eye open. "What are you saying?"

She flushed redder still than her shower-warmed skin.

"Well, you know," she floundered. "It's common knowledge that the metabolism slows down when you get older…"

"Yes, I'm not twenty-one," he said, "but I am also not seventy. So far I'm keeping up with you just fine." He yawned. "Tonight's apparently a different story, but I can be forgiven as I slept too little last night and bent at a strange angle to boot."

She smiled. "So bending yourself (or me for that matter) at strange angles is only acceptable while shagging. Right. Noted."

He closed his eyes again, laughing under his breath, suddenly feeling the need to clear up a little ongoing misapprehension of hers: "Bridget, we do not shag," he said.

"Then what was that little pre-dinner thing if not a shag?"

"We made love."

"There's not a difference."

"There is quite a difference."

His eyes opened at the feel of her fingers trailing down along his abdomen. "So what is the difference?"

"Shagging implies," he began, stopping as her fingers met with their destination, "the physicality of the act only."

"It doesn't," she said.

"There's a callousness to the word I don't like." He punctuated the sentence with a little groan. His lids fluttered then closed under the weight of desire. "A suggestion of no emotional connection or investment."

"Hm," she said thoughtfully, belying the absolutely delightful yet evil treatment she was giving his person. "You've clearly given this a lot of consideration."

"Bridge," he said throatily.

"Oh, are you too tired? I could stop—" She took her hand away.

In a flash his eyes opened; he launched himself up, pinned her to the bed and kissed her voraciously.

"I will never, ever, _ever_ in my life merely shag you," he murmured before demonstrating the veracity of his words.

…

He awakened earlier than usual so that he could make breakfast; he discovered that he would need almost all of that extra time just to rouse her out of bed, which was next to impossible even with coffee. What a miracle it was, he mused, that she'd ever made it to his class at all. He also had to allow time to drop Bridget back to Tom's place, then review the papers that had been delivered the night before. "Are we still on for lunch?" he asked as he navigated through the streets of London.

She nodded. "I'll be there at noon, if that's okay." She went quiet for a bit before saying, "So. Everything's okay with you and Patrick?"

"What?"

"Well… when you said you hadn't seen his dad since you were kids… I didn't realise you had known each other for so long. I thought you'd become friends at Bangor."

"No, Patrick's the reason I ended up at Bangor. We'd been out of touch for a while, but we went to Eton together."

"Wow. I didn't know."

"How would you have?" He turned the corner onto Tom's street. "Anyway. Everything's just fine." As he pulled to the kerb, he looked to her. "As a matter of fact, he gave us his blessing, as it were."

She blinked rapidly. "Did he?"

"He said we seemed really happy together."

She smiled. "I _am_ happy."

"So am I," he said, "and we're both going to be late if you don't get inside."

She leaned forward to kiss him. "I'm going to be late regardless," she said, bringing her fingers to his cheek. "But then again, I usually am."

"I'm shocked," he teased. "Go on. I'll see you at noon."

He watched her go into the building, then headed off for his office for what seemed like a torturously long morning. With great difficulty he directed all of his attention towards reading the long-put-off papers in preparation for court in the afternoon.

"Mark. I think this is yours."

He looked up, and standing in his doorway was Natasha, holding what appeared to be a printout.

"It appears to be an addendum on the Rogers case. Somehow it got in with my things."

He stood just as she came further into his office, took it from her and thumbed through it. Sure enough, it belonged to one of his cases, nothing he needed for his present casework, but he was grateful for its return. He could only think it had gotten merged with her things during one of their dinner meetings, the thought of which made him shudder inside when he considered what might have happened if not for his enlightenment in the form of Bridget.

"Thank you," he said, setting it down on his desk; he'd file it away later. "Was there something more I could help you with?"

"Well," she said. "I wanted to know if you want to join me for lunch."

His eyes shot to his watch; it was just after noon. Bridget was due any time. "Actually, I already have plans for lunch." He came around his desk, slipping into his suit jacket.

Natasha did not hide her look of disappointment quickly enough. "Oh," she said pleasantly, plastering a blatantly forced smile on her face.

He held out his hand to indicate he was leaving, and that she should go first. As she turned he heard her say in a cloyingly nasty voice, "Oh, you! Are you here to say hi to Uncle Mark?"

He looked past her and saw Bridget at the door of his office, looking very professional in her skirt and blazer, hair pulled into a clasp. She was regarding Natasha with scrutiny, as if deciding what she might say in response, but instead of saying anything, she simply came into the office and directly up to Mark, placed one hand on the back of his neck, got up onto her toes, and gave him a kiss that could hardly have been described as shy or tentative, and certainly not familial.

When she pulled back, she levelled her gaze at Natasha and said in a disturbingly innocent voice, "Yes."

Mark cleared his throat, sure his skin was fire red. Natasha, suitably humiliated, sniffed and lifted her chin. "I suppose we all know now what the appeal of teaching was for you, Mark," she said. "Though I'm guessing not all teaching was done in the classroom."

"Maybe you should give teaching a go," said Bridget. "Maybe you'd have better luck than you've had here."

"Ill-mannered and uncultured," snipped Natasha. "I should have expected no less."

In that same sweet voice, Bridget said, "Oh, then it'll come as no surprise when I tell you to go fuck yourself."

Natasha's mouth dropped open.

Bridget added, "Clearly no one else is doing it for you."

Natasha tossed back her hair and stomped out of the office, to Bridget's obvious delight.

"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" He was smiling, though.

She shrugged. "I don't usually like to be that rude, but she insulted you and she was a complete bitch at lunch that day in London. Besides, if she can't take the heat…" She drifted off. "Stupid cow. Anyway. Let's go have lunch."

"This must be your—Bridget." It was Jeremy standing at the open door. From the way he was grinning, he must have heard the whole thing.

Bridget turned to face him. "Yes," she said, accepting the handshake he offered.

"I'm Jeremy. I work with Mark. He's said lots of nice things about you."

"You have?" She beamed a smile to Mark.

"I might have done," Mark said.

"That's sweet."

"That was bloody brilliant," said Jeremy, "though I'm worried now that she might set her sights on someone else, like me."

"I'll see what I can do about that," said Bridget with a wink.

"It was very nice to meet you," Jeremy said, offering his hand to her for another shake, which she accepted with amusement. "Mark," he added with a wink of his own, "you were absolutely right." He caught her smiling.

As Mark escorted her down out of the building, he led her to the car.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I made reservations at the Ivy," he said.

"Hm. I was kind of thinking more along the lines of a… well, I don't know. A pizza or something." She pointed to her feet; she was wearing trainers with her outfit. "Well, I walked here and wasn't about to do so in my kitten heels."

He smiled. He should have known better than to think she'd prefer a place like the Ivy. "We can have whatever you like, though you would have been more than acceptable as you are there."

"Yeah, because of you."

"No." He reached for her hand. "Those shoes really make your outfit, anyway."

"You liar." She was smiling.

From his mobile, he phoned to cancel the reservation. She insisted they walk to a local place that she'd heard good things about, and the things she'd heard were correct. Of course, the favourable impression the place left upon him had as much to do with her company as it did the food.

Upon Mark's return to the office, Jeremy's follow-up comments to him in private were glowingly positive, if a little too honest about how attractive he thought her figure was.

Natasha's private comments were, as expected, subtly vicious. Insults to himself he could bear, particularly when they were expected.

"I suppose I can see the attraction for a man your age," she sniffed, which was rich considering she was as old as he was, if not older. "I suppose it's expected to have a young little thing to boost your ego—among other things, I'm sure—after what your wife did to you."

Insults to Bridget, however, he would not tolerate.

"She must feel very out of place when you go out together, if in fact you take her anywhere but to bed or the occasional chip stand," she went on to say. "I can't imagine she could keep up intellectually in our crowd, and with the display she put on for me it's clear her sense of decorum and class leaves much to be desired."

He only let her finish speaking because he wanted to see if there was anything she said to redeem herself. Of course she did not. "Natasha," he returned coolly. "Slandering my girlfriend is no way to endear yourself to me. Get out of my office."

"Girlfriend?" She spoke in a high, shrill, almost hysterical voice. "Mark, have you—"

"I said get out. And unless you have actual business with me, I'd prefer you stayed out."

She stared at him hard, as if she truly believed he had lost his senses. "Well, if that's the way it's going to be… don't come crawling back to me when you tire of her."

He could not help himself; he laughed out loud, which evidently shocked her into silence. Turning serious again, he commanded, "Go."

He was determined not to watch her leave. As satisfying as it might have been to see her stomp off, the fact was that she was more than likely to turn around to try to catch him watching, and it was much more satisfying to think of her not getting what she wanted yet again. There was also the fact that her backside was nothing special to look at, particularly when he considered how, with fondness, he had watched Bridget walk into her building; he might have loved Bridget's spirit and intellect, but there was no denying she had a very attractive bottom.

He did not raise his eyes until he heard his door click shut with more force than was strictly necessary.


	11. Chapter 11

**Into the Fire**  
11 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,378 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 11.**

The rest of July passed far too quickly. He was swamped at work and she was busy putting those things she had with her into boxes in order to move into the flat by the first. He still made time to see her at least twice during the week in the evenings, and they spent a lot of time together on the weekends, mostly at Tom's, helping her to pack, or helping her to move things into the new flat via his car once she'd gotten a key.

It was a pretty good size for a first flat, he decided, with a living room, a distinct kitchen area and a separate bedroom. Though it was rather bare at the moment he liked how comfortable it was. He liked its personality.

"You hate it," she said during this first visit.

"I don't," he said. "I see the potential."

"Potential for what, exactly? Raising livestock?"

He laughed, putting a box down. "No. For making it your own."

"Not even the furniture is mine," she said glumly.

"Doesn't matter," he said. He put his arm around her. "It's your own space."

He looked down, saw the hint of a smile on her face. "Yeah."

When she moved in officially as of the first of August, they cooked supper together in the kitchen, had great fun working out how to light the fireplace, and spent the evening together on the marvellously comfortable sofa, kissing and relishing the fact that she had her own flat, one that felt more like home to him in some ways than his own imposing abode.

It was on that same sofa after supper at her flat again, this time to celebrate having been together for one month, that she sighed in a rather unhappy fashion.

"What is it?" he coaxed.

"Oh, it's nothing," she said. "Just have a lot on my mind."

He didn't quite believe her, but he let it go. "I understand." He planted a kiss into her hair; they had both been so busy lately. "Maybe we can go out this upcoming weekend, a real dinner-and-a-film sort of date, to take your mind off of everything."

She stiffened a little. "I, uh, can't."

"You can't?"

She didn't say anything.

"Bridget. What's going on?"

"Nothing."

He lifted his hand and turned her face to his. She did not meet his gaze.

"Bridget."

She looked up at last. "I'm going out of town."

"What?"

"I'm taking the train up."

"Train—" It occurred to him exactly where this train was going. "To Grafton Underwood?"

She nodded. "I want to get the rest of my things. My dad offered to drive me back."

"Bridget, that's insane. I could drive you there and back."

She shook her head. "I'd rather you didn't."

A drive to Grafton Underwood was not the true point of contention, and he knew it. The subject of their relationship still needed to be broached with their parents, and that in travelling with him to get her things she knew it could no longer be avoided… and she wished to avoid it as long as possible. He wanted, on the other hand, to get it over with. Conversations with his own mother had been somewhat stilted in not discussing the biggest change to come into his life.

"Bridget," he said gently. "This can't be dodged forever."

"Why not?" she said. "They don't have to know everything about my life."

"That's true, they don't," he said. "But it's not as if you have anything to be ashamed of. It's not as if I'm a Nazi torturer."

The absurdity of his statement got her to chuckle, at least. "But I can't bear the thought of them reacting badly, or thinking badly of you for obviously 'taking advantage of a sweet, innocent young girl just out of university'." The latter part she said in an imitation of her mother's voice. "What they don't know won't hurt them."

He understood. She wanted the blessing of her parents. Given his respect for her father and her age, he would have preferred parental blessing too. The truth was, though, that he just didn't know if he'd get it from them. He liked to think his own parents would react rationally, but he wasn't sure they wouldn't accuse him of the very same thing.

"We can tell them together. If they can see how happy we are together… I'd like to think they'd be reasonable."

She smiled, her eyes very glossy.

"And… if the worst came to be," he went on, a knot in his own stomach, "it's your life and you have to do what makes you happy, regardless of what other people think, particularly if they're wrong. Even if they are your parents."

A tear spilled down over her cheek. He reached up and brushed it away.

"So," he said. "I'll pick you up at eleven on Saturday?"

Her mouth formed the word Okay, even though no sound came out. He pulled her into an embrace.

"It'll be all right," he said with a confidence he didn't actually feel, drawing broad arcs on her back with his fingertips to comfort her.

The drive to Grafton Underwood on Saturday morning was positively funereal in its silence. Not even the playing of the lively CD she had made for him once upon a time could lighten her mood. Mark had resolved to talk to her parents immediately upon arrival, then his; he'd called his mother in advance and told her he was bringing someone for a late lunch.

"Well, this is a surprise," said Pam Jones as the door opened and she saw the pair of them standing there. Her cheery expression drooped. "My godfathers. Did someone pass away?"

He had to smile. "Sorry, no," he said. He saw Mr Jones sitting in his chair, and at the sound of Mark's voice he set his book down, lowering his reading glasses. "Good afternoon," Mark said as they came in. Pam went to stand by her husband's chair, as Mark and Bridget came to stand before them.

"What's going on?" said Colin, his brows furrowed. "What's Bridget gone and done?"

"Nothing, nothing," Mark said quickly. "It's just…" He prodded her with his elbow.

"Mum, Dad, I… um…" Bridget began.

"We have something to tell you," Mark supplied.

"We?"

"Mark and I have started dating," she said in a great rush before taking in a deep breath then exhaling.

"You… you've what?" asked her father. Mark could have sworn he saw her mother smiling.

"I can assure you, sir, that this began long after graduation," he said; it was a little white lie, since the time between Monday and the Friday immediately following could hardly constitute 'long' by any definition, but the essential truth was there.

"Well, this is wonderful!" said Pam unexpectedly. "I was so worried that she would get mixed up with the wrong sort of boy down there in London. And here you are, Mark; older, wiser, well-established, and we know you and your parents already…"

"How much older again?" Colin asked.

"I'm thirty-three," Mark said.

Pam made a dismissive sound. "Age doesn't matter. Remember Bill Dawson's widow? That boy fawned over her. Absolutely devoted."

Mark ventured a look to Bridget. She looked like she thought she was imagining the whole scene. "It's really okay?" she asked.

"This began after you were no longer in his class?" Colin asked sternly.

"Absolutely," she said, nodding earnestly. "Swear to God."

Colin turned his gaze to Mark. "May I speak to you privately?"

"Of course."

Colin rose to his feet, indicated Mark should follow. They went into the kitchen.

"I'm not wild about such an age difference," Colin said. "What exactly are your intentions?"

"To make her as happy as I can," he said without thought.

Colin studied him. "You love her."

"Yes," Mark said. "Believe me, I know how bad a difference like that looks; I spent a long time debating it in my own mind, fought it as long as I could. Please believe me when I say I did not force her into anything—"

Colin actually chuckled. "No, I can't imagine you did. It's not possible to make her do something she doesn't want to do." He let out a breath. "You're a decent man. I know that through your parents." He smiled at last. "I know you'll take good care of her."

The relief he felt was immense. "Thank you, Mr Jones."

"Oh, chuh, it's Colin." He clapped Mark on the shoulder. "Come on. I'm sure Bridget thinks I'm eviscerating you in here."

Mark laughed.

The two of them entered the living room again. Bridget still looked shell-shocked as she turned her eyes to Mark despite seeing the two men looking so genial towards each other.

"I'll bring Bridget back after lunch," he said.

She snapped out of her trance to ask him, "Lunch?"

"With my parents. I'm sure I told you."

She shook her head.

"Oh, have you not said anything to them yet?" asked Pam, looking a little smug perhaps that the Joneses had gotten the news first. "I won't say a peep."

As they went down the front walk, Bridget said, "You didn't say anything about lunch."

"Don't worry," he said. "It'll be fine."

"Are they expecting me?"

"Yes," he said.

He realised he should have been more specific in his answer—that they were not expecting Pam and Colin's daughter, but rather, were preparing to meet Mark's girlfriend—because when Elaine saw Mark and Bridget approaching the table in the back garden, she looked a bit dazed and confused herself.

"Hi, Mrs Darcy," said Bridget cheerily as she waved.

"Mark," she said, "you told me—" She then stopped, covering her mouth with her hand, turning quite pale. "Oh."

"What's wrong?" asked Bridget.

"Mother," he said. Had he so misjudged what her reaction would be? "It's Bridget I've been seeing."

Bridget seemed to understand in that moment what exactly Mark had said, and what he had omitted. She gave him a piercing look.

"What's all the hubbub out here?"

It was his father, strolling out with a pitcher of what appeared to be lemonade.

"Malcolm!" said Elaine. "Mark's girlfriend is Colin and Pam's Bridget!"

"Stuff and nonsense," said the admiral. "Colin and Pam's girl is a baby. My boy has more sense."

"Father, with all due respect, she's right here."

He looked at her, blinked as if he had never before seen her. "Well, I'll grant you she has grown up and grown up well, but you've got to have at least a decade on her, my son."

He never thought in a million years his own parents would react this way when hers had not. "Regardless," Mark said, "we've been seeing each other for over a month. We're very happy and we thought you should know."

Elaine apparently did some calendar-based calculations. "So it didn't begin—"

"No," he said emphatically.

Bridget, he realised, looked like she wanted to bolt. Elaine looked sympathetically to her. "I'm sorry, my dear. It's nothing against you; you know how much we like you. We just have to question what our son was thinking. What do your own parents say?"

"They were very supportive," she said.

"They approve?" Malcolm said.

"They do," affirmed Mark.

He watched his parents exchange a look, his mother's lips pursed. "You're just so young, my dear," Elaine said. "Aren't you a little too young to be seeing someone so much older? Aren't you afraid he might hurt you?"

"Mother!"

"I'm not saying you would _try_ to do so," Elaine said, turning to him, obviously attempting to smooth down his feathers. "But a girl her age… she might have different expectations than you have."

"I know what I've gotten myself into," she said. "And he seems to know exactly what I need." It was so close to his own words to Patrick that he could not suppress a smile.

"Feisty," declared Malcolm. "Not afraid to say what she's thinking. A little like someone else we know, what ho?" He indicated Mark's own mother.

With this outburst from his father the increasingly intensifying atmosphere dispersed, and Mark laughed. They all did.

"Just trust me," he said, putting his arm around Bridget's shoulders.

"After all, I do," added Bridget, reciprocating with an arm about Mark's waist. "I would very much like to know you approve, too."

He saw the moment where his mother's reserve melted away, revealed by a tender smile directed at the two of them. "I would be a fool not to," she said, "seeing how willing the both of you are to make your case."

"And that you even bothered," added Malcolm. "After all, Mark could have a five-year-old child and we might never know, with as often as we get to London these days."

"I can assure you that I do not," said Mark, his peace restored.

The luncheon to follow was restful and relaxed; once the initial surprise was over, that his parents already treated her like one of the family was very telling to him. He was very happy at how things had turned out. Upon conclusion, though, he knew he had to take her back to her parents' for the packing and assembling of her things.

As they made the short drive back, she said, "I never would have pegged _them_ for the freak out."

He laughed. "I wish I could take you straight home."

"You are."

"I mean to my home. Or yours."

"Oh." After a moment, she said, "Pull over."

"What?"

"Just do it."

He did as she asked. She leaned over and gave him a long, passionate kiss.

"That's not helping," he said; for the four days between agreeing to tell their parents and now, she had been so wound up over the impending announcement that she'd shied away from sex. He suddenly and acutely felt its absence.

"I'm sorry," she said, resting a hand on his cheek. "I've just wanted to do that all afternoon."

He placed his hand on hers. "Maybe I can help you pack."

"No, that's all right," she said. "You'll only distract me."

He smiled. "I like thinking I'm capable of distracting you."

"Oh, you are more than capable."

"Well," he said. "Get your things packed. The sooner you do, the sooner we can go back and unpack."

She grinned. "Okay."

He was not expecting her to phone that same evening to announce she was ready to go.

"Bridget," he said with a laugh, cradling his phone under his chin. "I didn't mean tonight. It's almost ten in the evening, then a two hour drive… we'll leave first thing tomorrow."

There was silence.

"I want to see you," she said at last in a low voice. "I want you."

"Pardon?" he asked, glancing to where his mother sat reading a book, his father, puzzling through a crossword.

"I want you," she repeated.

"Tonight?" He began crafting excuses to leave the house, even for a little while.

"I've got three boxes and three overly full holdalls," she said. "We can make it to London in an hour and a half if you don't drive like a little old man with a hat pulled down over his eyes. It'll be worth your while."

"I'll pretend you didn't just disparage my driving skills." He rose from his seat, went into the next room, lowered his voice. "How about a compromise?"

"What kind of compromise can you offer me that doesn't involve the back seat of your car?"

"Would you complain if it did?"

Pause. "How soon can you be here?"

After making excuses that he was sure he would never have bought in his parents' stead, he left the house, got in the car, and drove very much unlike a little old man with a hat over his eyes until he was in her parents' drive again.

"I told my mum we were going to the pub for a drink," she said, closing the door as she hopped in.

"Better than my excuse," he said, putting the car into gear and speeding away. "Some nonsense about topping the petrol."

She laughed. "I expect your brain was a bit addled."

He made a left into what he knew to be sparsely populated farmland. They drove about five minutes before he pulled off onto the side of the road. There were no artificial lights, only a silver sliver of moon and the stars above.

"Right here?" she asked.

"Do you have a better idea?"

She got out of the car.

"Come on. I know where we are."

Leading him by the hand, she took him to a soft patch of grass beneath a broad tree. She put her arms around his neck, got up onto her toes, and drew her tongue sensuously over his lips.

Indeed, it was a better idea.

The benefit of her excuse was that her changing into a dress would not have garnered questions from her mother or father, and it made what followed even easier to accomplish. From the way she moaned and cried out he hoped there were no other human beings around for miles, or at least hoped the brush and trees dampened the sound a bit. There was something almost desperate about the act, the closest (in his opinion) they'd ever come to shagging, but he wanted her so badly he could hardly be faulted for his desire.

"Oh," she said with great satisfaction in her voice upon culmination. As he moved to her side to catch his breath, he could see the pale shape of her arm slowly moving as she dragged her fingers through the lush grass. "Love the lovely warm summer night."

He pulled the hem of her dress down, smoothing it with the flat of his hand over her hip and thigh as he kissed her again.

"I feel like we're naughty schoolchildren," she said devilishly, turning onto her side to pull herself flush to him, her hand on his trouser-clad bottom; he had not seen a need to fully undress, and she had been too impatient, anyway.

"I feel like it's been weeks since we've done this."

"It hasn't."

"I know," he said. "It just feels like it has."

"Sorry to have flipped out about nothing and deprived you."

He chuckled. "I'm fine," he said, nuzzling into her neck. "I am now, anyway."

After a bit of a respite in the grass, a bit more cuddling, then a second round that was a little less hurried—"This has to last us through tomorrow, at least," she advised sagely—they righted their clothes and went back to the car, climbing in to drive away after making sure in the headlamps that she did not have clumps of dirt or grass stains on her arse or on his knees. As he dropped her off, he leaned forward and kissed her, then waited for her to get into the house before driving off.

When he arrived home to his parents' he did not expect to encounter anyone, so he was suitably surprised when his mother walked into the foyer. "Mark," she said, a bemused expression on her face. "Was just heading down for some tea."

"Ah. Well, goodnight."

After a moment's intense study of her son, she walked up to him, raised her hand, then reached and plucked what ended up being a few blades of grass from his hair. "That's one rough petrol station," she said. She then pecked him on the cheek and continued on to the kitchen. "Goodnight," she called back to him.

He was mortified, but not regretful. He loved Bridget and never wanted to go back to the way things were before she came along.

…

"You know what my mother meant by 'well-established', don't you?"

This from Bridget as they brought the last of the boxes into her flat.

"No."

"You're wealthy."

He laughed. "I'm not," he said, though he wasn't sure he wasn't.

"Trust me, Mr Darcy," she said, "you are. Not that I care about that. But I'm sure it softened the blow of learning her daughter was having a scandalous relationship with a man almost two decades older than she is."

"Thirteen years is not 'almost two decades'," he said.

"To her it is."

"And there's nothing scandalous about it."

"I refer you to last night's shagging in an open field in the country."

He allowed her the term given his thoughts at the time. "It only would have been scandalous if we'd been caught."

"But your mother—"

"She's hardly going to run to the media."

Just then her telephone rang. "Do you mind if I—?"

"No, go ahead and pick up."

As she spoke on the phone, he looked around himself. The flat had really come into its own since she'd moved in: framed photos and artwork on the walls, colourful magnets on the refrigerator, fairy lights strung up in the kitchen, mismatched throw pillows on the sofa, and there on the bookshelf amongst her things was her Monopoly game. He especially loved being there with her; it really personified her warmth and love.

"Bugger, hold on." She covered the receiver. "I totally forgot about my friend coming over tonight. Do you mind a third for dinner?"

"I don't mind; in fact, I could go if you want a night with your girlfriend."

"I want you to stay," she said. "I want you to meet her."

He grinned. "Okay."

The friend turned out to be someone she'd met through work, someone who also happened to be a friend of Tom's. Abrasive and opinionated, she regarded him warily, and every other word out of her mouth seemed to be 'fuck'. Her name was Sharon, or so Mark thought; there were several different permutations that cropped up, any one of which might have been her actual name: Shaz, Shazza, Shazzie, Shazzer. He did not want to know where the 'Z' had come into play.

"How typical," she said upon first meeting him, eyeing him up and down. "Now you're in your thirties you want someone younger, someone who can't think for herself."

"Shazzer," Bridget replied, obviously upset that her friend would so blatantly offend her and her boyfriend in one fell swoop.

"Well, of course _you_ can think for yourself," said Sharon, trying to mollify her. "But he doesn't know that."

"I've had ample occasion to see Bridget think for herself," said Mark, "and speak for herself, to my detriment at times."

"Plus your last boyfriend was thirty-five," said Bridget indignantly, "and you're twenty-seven."

"That's because I prefer more mature men," she sniffed.

Mark chuckled, incensing Sharon visibly.

"Shaz," she said, laughing too, "you're being a bloody hypocrite. Just drop it."

"Fine," Sharon said, still looking disgruntled.

Bridget was able to deftly manoeuvre the conversation to something more neutral: their mutual friend Tom. "He's amazing on stage," Sharon said. "I know he had that pop hit back in the day, but he really _can_ sing. He's got a real Lana Turner vibe."

"That's it exactly," said Mark suddenly, snapping his fingers as he realised it was that very name he had struggled to think of the night of the show. The two women turned simultaneously to him.

"You've seen Tom's show?" said Sharon.

"It was our first date," said Mark.

Sharon's brows raised in disbelief at this admission. "Well. You could knock me down with a feather."

Bridget burst out with a laugh.

They had a nice enough time that evening over supper, though Bridget was naturally the conversational pivot point; Mark rarely if at all spoke to Sharon directly except to offer the salt. Sharon at least did have the sense to leave soon after supper without being frogmarched out, and when she did, Bridget turned to Mark looking somewhat sad.

"I'm sorry," she said, then added a bit defensively, "Obviously you don't like my first real new female friend in London."

"It's not that I dislike her," he said.

"Then what is it?"

"I just don't see that she's the best choice to fill that void in your life."

"'Void'?" she asked, fire flaring in her eyes.

"You know. Best girlfriend."

Her mouth dropped open a little. "You are unbelievable," she said after a moment. "'Best girlfriend'? What am I, seven? And even if you had the right to dictate to me who could or could not be my best girlfriend, _which you don't_—" Her irritation and level of offence were rising with each passing second. "—why is Sharon so bloody objectionable? And what is this 'void' nonsense?"

Mark started to feel the first twinges of regret. "Maybe not so much a 'void' as a 'role'. It seems clear you want a close female friend, but she… uses very coarse language."

"You're kidding me."

"She's overly suspicious," he went on. "She questions my motives and does not trust you to know what you're doing."

"Mark," she said in a brisk staccato, hands on her hips, halting his nascent rant. "She cares about me. From her perspective as an older single woman who's lived in London since she was eighteen, she sees a just-out-of-uni friend and colleague taking up with an older man… and older men usually only want one thing from younger women. She just wants to be sure about you. She'll come around." She let her hands drop to her sides. "The question is: will you?"

He would very likely walk across fire for her, but offered a modest, "I will give it my very best."

She cracked a small smile. "Thank you. And?"

He blinked several times. "And… what?"

She raised her eyebrows, moving her hand in encouraging circles. When he did not say anything, she frowned. "Mark," she said dangerously.

It then occurred to him what he had not done.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly but sincerely.

She appeared unmoved.

"I care about you," he added, babbling a bit, "and I want the people in your life to treat you as you deserve to be treated because you deserve the best."

Her frown transformed into a smile. "Apology accepted." Then she chuckled. "You know, this might be our first real row."

"Well, first row as a couple anyway."

She held out her arms. "Mmmm. Make up time."

He knew that she probably meant make-up sex, but to his mind falling into bed for any given reason only seemed to prove Sharon's point. He feigned ignorance. "We already made up."

"You prat," she said, then leapt forward and put her arms around him.

He gave her a tender kiss, holding her close to him. "How about a bit of dessert? My treat."

She raised her brows, then smiled. "Yes."

They walked to a patisserie just up the street, one reputably loaded with charm, ambience and amazingly delicious sweets, and enjoyed, in comfortable, romantic silence, coffee and dessert—light, fluffy angel food cake with an almond cream frosting and surprisingly no chocolate in sight—before returning to the flat.

"I have to take depositions in the morning," he said as she turned the key in the door.

She paused before opening the door and entering. "Oh. Early?"

"Fairly early."

"Oh," she said again. "Do you have to leave?"

"Well," he said. "Not quite yet."

She smiled. "Good, 'cause it's my first night fully, truly moved in."

"Ah, true."

She took his hand in one of hers, cupped his face in the other, and pressed her lips to his.

"How about we navigate 'round the junk in my room and have that make-up shag?"

He swept her up in his arms. "We've been over that word," he murmured, then kissed her.

On the next few occasions where he saw Sharon, she was more genial to him, and in turn he was to her. It made him feel better to think maybe Bridget had put in a few more good words for him in private.

…

"I can't believe you didn't tell me."

Bridget sounded as wounded as he had ever heard her sound, her eyes big and wide, her lower lip nearly trembling.

"It's not a big deal," he said and to him, it wasn't. He had not thought she would feel so radically different.

"Of course it is!" she said. "I have no time to plan anything, no time to get you a present, make you a cake…"

He chuckled. "I haven't needed any of those things since I was a boy. It's just a birthday."

She made a dismissive sound. "'Just a birthday'!" she said, exasperated.

"Maybe you'll feel differently when—" He paused to reconsider his words. He couldn't think of anything that didn't sound condescending: _when you're my age_, _when you're older_…

"I know what you're thinking, and _no_, I won't," she declared. "It's like having a special holiday all to yourself. And it's tomorrow!"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just didn't think it mattered. Besides, it's not a special holiday all to myself. It's the—"

"Summer Bank Holiday." She made a sound of frustration. "Well, at least you're not working, and you're lucky you didn't tell me after the fact. I would have been even more cross."

"I am."

"What?"

"Working, Bridget."

Her mouth dropped open. "How can you be working? It's not like court's in session."

"You know I can't always leave my work at work, Bridget." Blessedly the times when he did bring work home were few and far between since they'd gotten together. "There is a lot of research and preparation that goes into court when it is in session."

"You're not going to work."

"I believe I just told you I am."

"It's not an observation," she said. "It's a request." She placed her hand on his arm from where she sat next to him at the dinner table. "It would mean a lot to me. And you… you said once there's more to life than over-preparing for work."

He thought about his planned work for the next day, and it was nothing he hadn't already reviewed or couldn't put off until later in the week. He could hardly believe he was considering it; the old Mark never would have. He supposed he was better for it. "Your memory is selectively too good."

"Selectively?" She raised a brow.

"I just mean 'at times', that's all." He leaned and kissed her on the forehead. "I think, though, that I probably could use the day off." This statement earned him a very broad smile and a proper kiss.

They watched a little telly then a film on DVD after supper, which kept him up a little later than usual for a Sunday night, particularly as he ended up staying the night in her slightly lumpy but cosy bed. When he woke the following morning he found he was alone under the covers. He squinted at the clock; it was just barely eight. It was not unusual that she was up first; he would often wake to find her there looking at him, attempting (in her words) to wake him with thought vibes. It was unusual, though, that she would have risen so early. Even more unusual was the discovery he made in padding out to use the loo: he was in fact alone in the flat.

He reasoned that perhaps she had gone down to the market for something for breakfast; he had not originally intended on staying over since he usually did not on Sunday night, and it was likely she had nothing to make. He went back to bed, intending on relaxing (and surprisingly enough, revelling in skipping work) until she returned, at which point he intended in lounging some more with breakfast and a cuddle in bed.

The sensation of the bed sinking beside him roused him awake from full-fledged sleep. He blinked his eyes a few times to find the sunlight permeating the room, and Bridget sitting beside him, dressed in a pretty floral frock and smiling like the cat that had gotten the canary.

"Rise and shine, birthday boy," she said tenderly, reaching out to stroke his hair with her fingertips.

Habits died hard; his eyes flitted towards the clock. Nearly eleven. "Good morning," he said, pushing himself to sit upright. It was only then he caught a whiff of coffee and something sweet. He looked to the bedside table again from his elevated position. She had indeed brought breakfast, an apricot-filled croissant and a tall paper cup undoubtedly containing a cappuccino. There was also a second plate and cup—her own breakfast, chocolate croissant and a capp—as well as a newspaper folded open then in half to the sports section.

"For me?" As soon as he asked it, he realised how silly it sounded. "I mean, of course, yes. Thank you, and thank you for getting up early just to do this."

"You're welcome—though it was hardly as if there wasn't anything in it for me." She handed him the plate and the coffee, then took her own plate and coffee and climbed back under the covers to eat with him. She held up her paper cup for a toast. "To Mark on his birthday—a day he has never considered special. Here's to changing that."

He smiled and touched his cup to hers before having a sip, then bit into the pastry. It was baked perfection, flaky yet moist and the apricot filling was not too sweet; the fruit itself was even still slightly firm to the tooth. He glanced to her, saw she was looking expectant. He smiled. "Very good choice. Thank you."

She leaned back against the wall, took a big bite of her own pastry, and still managed to look smug as she did so. "Looks like there's some interesting news about those footballers you always rant about," she said. "Thought you might like to see."

"Thank you," he said again, then sipped his coffee drink again. "I'll look in a bit." He smiled as he looked to her again; she had acquired a giant smudge of chocolate on the tip of her nose.

"What?" she asked at his look.

He reached forward and brushed it off with his thumb. "Just a bit of chocolate gone astray."

"Was saving that for later," she said with mock offence, bringing her hand up presumably to clean up the stray bits, but only succeeded in getting more chocolate on her.

"You're determined, aren't you?" he asked with a laugh as he cleaned it off again.

When they finished their respective pastries and cappuccinos, she gathered the plates and cups, set them on the nightstand, then turned to him to snuggle into his chest. He kissed the top of her head, content to stay with her like that for many minutes. As she looked up into his eyes, he reached to kiss her on the lips; after a moment of reciprocation, she reared back and said something that made him think he had misheard:

"You should get dressed."

"What?"

"Dressed."

"I thought playing hooky from work meant lazing about the flat all day."

"We can't do that," she said. "We have things to do."

"Which things?"

She smiled devilishly. "You'll see."

Luckily he had clean boxers that had gone through with her laundry, and his clothing from the day before was still presentable. He had a quick shower, shaved and dressed. As she checked her hair and makeup, he checked his mobile for messages. Nothing. It would seem he was not missed, and he was rather okay with that.

Only as she emerged was he able to appreciate how lovely she looked in that dress with her sandals, her hair flipped prettily up on the bottom. "I think we're all set," she said, slipping her sunglasses on and slinging her purse onto her shoulder. He put his hand into his trouser pocket to ensure his keys were there. She must have heard the jingling because she said, "Nope, no need to drive."

They took the Underground to South Kensington station. Emerging onto the street, she took his hand and with the flash of a smile she led him to their destination, pausing only a few times to get her bearings then led them both northward towards Cromwell Road. In a few more minutes they were standing in front of the Natural History Museum.

He didn't quite understand, and looked down to her, brows drawn together.

"You told me once that in all the time you'd lived in London you had not had the time to so much as visit a single museum," she said.

"I did? When?"

"During one of our drives."

"There's your selectively good memory again," he joked.

"I just thought it would be nice to carve out that time for you," she said. "That and I haven't been either, so we could see it together for the first time."

He was touched more by this than he had ever been by any other gift or gesture from a past girlfriend or his ex-wife. He put his arm around her and kissed her on the temple then with a smile they entered the museum together.

Upon stepping foot into the imposing building, he saw that a special exhibit was currently running that featured the little-explored deep sea environment. When he stood there reading the informational placard with obviously more than a passing interest, she asked, "Do you want to go?"

"I think I would. This looks very interesting."

"Come on," she said. "My treat."

He knew her disposable income was not that great. "You really don't have to."

"No, I want to."

The exhibit was beautifully designed; they made their way past the bathysphere, the enormous globe, the submersibles used in current deep sea exploration. When they got to the portion of the exhibit featuring the actual creatures from the deep sea—preserved and illuminated in a haunting blue light—it filled him with the skin-tingling sense of awe usually reserved for the young.

He felt her take his hand again. "I wonder what Shakespeare would have made of this," she said quietly, almost reverently. He looked to her, curious to know what had even brought that to her mind, when she met his gaze. It did not matter that there suddenly seemed to be a swarm of children hovering about them. In that moment there was only her. "'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

He reached forward, placed his hand on her cheek, and bent to give her a kiss. It was a simple, sweet kiss, but when one of the nearby children erupted with an, "Eeww, gross!", both of them could not help laughing.


	12. Chapter 12

**Into the Fire**  
12 of 12 ::sadface::

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 8,054 this part.  
Rating: M / R  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 12.**

They finished the exhibit, saw some more of the impressive permanent collection then decided it was time for a late lunch. On the way back to South Kensington Station they ventured into a pub with the amusing name Hoop and Toy, had a couple of pints and some bangers and chips, then took the Tube back to her flat.

As soon as they were inside he took her into his arms and gave her a tight hug, spanning his hands over her back. "This has been a very, very good day," he said quietly, then kissed her again just on the hairline by her temple.

"I'm glad," she said, "but it's hardly over yet." She pulled back, taking his hands. "Why don't you put on the football, read your newspaper… I have a bit of baking to do."

Curious, he went to the kitchen with her. One of the things she'd procured in the morning before he'd awakened was a box cake mix. "It's angel food cake," he said, reading over the box label.

"I know," she said.

"You prefer chocolate."

"It's not my cake. Come on." She took his hand and marched him to the living room, switched on the telly, and found the football. He was going to protest that he would have preferred spending time in the kitchen with her, but it turned out to be a really good game.

Within no time at all he could smell the delightful scent in the air of cake baking, and she was dropping to sit beside him on the sofa. "Who's winning?"

"We're ahead at the moment, but it's been really touch and go," he said in a very serious voice, the sound of which snapped him back to reality. "But it's just a game."

"It's a game you enjoy though."

He sat back, held his arm out to invite her to curl up to him. She took the invitation, resting her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest, her legs up over his lap. He leaned into her, felt her hair against his chin, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the heavenly baking smells. "There are other things I enjoy more," he murmured, then raised his hand to tilt her chin up in order to give her a kiss, sweet at first but quickly descending into a passionate snog.

The timer beeping from the kitchen broke up the kiss with chuckles.

"Let me get that," she said. "Burned cake would not do."

"Indeed not."

She swung her legs over, stood and went towards her kitchen. With the way the flat was laid out he had a straight line of vision the entire distance. Watching her walk did not have the effect he would have expected—flaring, uninhibited lust—but rather, filled him with a sense of love, of rightness, of 'this is the way things are supposed to be.'

"Oh, bugger," she said, pulling the cake from the oven.

"What's wrong?"

"My oven runs hot, I think," she said mournfully. "It's too brown."

"It's all right," he called back. "It'll taste just fine. Plus with icing…"

"Fuck," she muttered. "I knew there was something I forgot to buy." She turned back to him, her expression completely forlorn.

He rose and went to her. "Do you have confectioner's sugar?"

"Um. I don't think so."

"What about… jam?"

"Oh, I might," she said, brightening; she went to crouch in front of the refrigerator. "Raspberry jam."

"Sounds perfect."

The cake had yet to cool, and coupled with the late August summer heat, the flat was too warm to want to think about cooking supper. "That's okay," she said proudly. "I bought tomatoes, some basil and some fresh mozzarella. We can have a cold salad after the match."

They returned to the sofa to find the game still on. France was presently ahead by a point which immediately got Mark to ranting about the egos of the top English players. She only smiled and agreed, though it was clear to him she had no idea, aside from his previous rants, what he was going on about. "Be right back," she said, kissing him on the head as he fell into the match full force.

She returned some time later with two glasses of iced tea. He took a long sip; it was homemade and unsweetened with a little lemon, and was very refreshing. "Excellent."

"It's bottled lemon juice," she said, "but it's still good."

"Darling, you don't have to make excuses. It's still excellent."

She smiled and took a sip of her own.

In the end, England took the game. "If I'm not careful," he said, "I'm going to become superstitious and think they only won because I was watching with you." At her look of unbridled horror, he leaned in and gave her a kiss.

Together they assembled dinner. He chopped up the vegetables while she found the Balsamic vinegar and olive oil, then cut the fresh mozzarella balls into smaller, bite-sized chunks. It all got mixed together into a large bowl with a little salt and oregano, which he then doled into smaller bowls.

"It's funny," he said as they settled in at the table; he brought the bowls and forks, she, the glasses of white wine. "I think I know your kitchen better than my own."

She chuckled. "It's a lot smaller. Fewer options to get confused by." She raised her glass of wine. "Another toast, another wish for all things good on your birthday."

He smiled, nodded, and clinked his glass to hers. "I have absolutely no complaints."

As dinner was concluding, Mark's mobile began to ring. He hadn't intended on answering, but did pull the phone out to see who was calling. "It's my parents," he said. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she said. "I'll clear the table."

He opted not to answer with his standard greeting. "Hello."

"Mark, son, happy birthday." It was his mother.

"Thanks," he said.

"I tried ringing before at your home number but I figured you must have still been working."

"I didn't work today. I spent the day with Bridget."

She didn't respond immediately, and when she did, she sounded very surprised. "You didn't… work?"

"We had breakfast, went to the National History Museum and saw the deep sea exhibit, had lunch, watched the football match, and just had supper."

"And there's cake!" called Bridget.

"But you didn't work."

"Not for a moment."

She was silent again. "And it was a good day, I trust?"

"One of the very best."

There was another pause of silence. "May I speak to Bridget?"

"Sure," he said. "Bridget, my mother would like to speak to you."

She furrowed her brows, paused to lick something that looked suspiciously like raspberry jam from her fingers, then came to take his mobile. "Hello, this is Bridget," she said; as she listened intently, her features smoothed out. Her eyes darted to Mark. She smiled. "Yes, he's fine. Yes. Okay. I will. Did you want to—oh, all right. Good night then." She held the phone away and pressed a button to disconnect the call. She handed it to him once more. "I think you just broke your mother's brain. She—"

The mobile rang again, and again it was his parents' number. "Hold on." He answered it. "This is Mark."

"Mark, m'boy, what's this I hear?" It was his father, and from his tone Mark could tell he was in a jovial mood. "You not feeling well? Did the aliens take and replace you with a pod person?"

"What?"

"Your mother tells me you chucked work to spend your birthday with your girlfriend."

Mark chuckled. "Yes. I did."

"And it was a good one?"

"Very good."

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," said Malcolm. "All work and no play, and all that. Cheerio, son, and happy birthday. I'll leave you to your Bridget."

"Goodbye, Father." He disconnected. "He called back," he said, stating the obvious.

"I think your mother was so flustered to hear you spent your birthday in a normal manner that she forgot to hand the phone over," said Bridget. He thought she was probably right. "Okay. You stay there and close your eyes. I'll be right back."

He did as requested. He heard her set something down on the table then leave again.

"Don't open them yet," she warned.

He heard her swearing softly at the matchbook, then could tell through his closed eyes that she'd turned the kitchen lights off. After a moment she returned and set down something a little heavier directly in front of him.

"Okay, now you can open them."

As he did, the sight that met him made his eyes tear up a bit: it was the little round golden cake, and in the centre, with the raspberry jam, she had drawn a heart. Around the edge of the heart were the candles, lit and glowing warmly. As he gazed upon it, as beautiful a thing as he had ever seen, she began to sing the Happy Birthday song to him, off key and with an interesting sense of timing, but it touched him more than any professionally rendered song could have. At the conclusion she threw her arms around his neck from behind, pecked a kiss on his cheek and said, "Make a wish."

He blew out the candles, but realised he had no wish to make that had not already come true.

"Hurrah!" she said, clapping her hands together before leaning forward to start to pluck the candles out. "Come on, you have to cut it."

He picked up the bread knife that she had brought for him to cut the cake and precisely divided it into eight slices.

"Almost forgot. Ice cream."

"It's okay."

"No, no, must have ice cream." She scurried away then returned momentarily with two pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream: one brand new and obviously unopened vanilla, and another of a chocolate variety.

"Do you not think I like other flavours?" he teased as she scooped out vanilla for him.

"Well, I know you're not as crazy about chocolate," she said, "and I didn't have much time this morning to be too choosy." She moved to scoop out her own ice cream.

"Bridget," he said, feeling suddenly emotional.

"Yes?" she asked, stopping at the seriousness of his tone.

"Thank you for all of this," he said. "For waking up early, buying breakfast and all of these other things—" He vaguely indicated the ghost of dinner just past, as well as the ice cream. "—treating me to a wonderful day with you, watching the match with me, making supper and baking a cake for me."

She smiled broadly. "It was my pleasure, Mark. I told you it should be a special day, and you mean the world to me."

He did not quite know what to say, so instead he leaned forward and kissed her once again.

The kettle went off at that moment. "Some tea?" she asked, pulling back.

"Sure."

The cake was moist and tasted very good, particularly with the raspberry topping and paired with the vanilla ice cream. Tea was standard and black, which made him ponder her propensity for light, sweet coffee.

"You'll have to take the rest of the cake with you," she stated.

"What?"

"Well, it's yours," she said, "plus if it's here I'll eat it all."

He chuckled. "How about if I leave it here?" he said. "I'll need something for breakfast when I'm here."

She smiled.

He pushed his plate aside when he finished, cupping his mug of tea in two hands as if it were a cold winter night. It was twilight now, nearly full dark, and the air coming in through the window was finally cool; perhaps the difference was what made him cup the mug in such a reflexive manner. He was pondering the eventuality of going home; he had not planned to stay over the night before, and another day in the same clothes, even if only to go home to change into a suit, seemed untenable.

"Time for your present."

These four words snapped him to the present.

"My present?"

"Mm-hm," she said with a grin, getting up out of her chair. "Give me a moment."

She returned momentarily with a decorative gift bag of not inconsequential size. "Sorry it's not a bit fancier," she said. "I didn't have time to find a box and wrapping paper—"

"Don't apologise," he said. "Thank you."

He took the bag from her hand; it was not particularly heavy. He went to open the tape seal at the top, but she _tsk_ed him.

"The card."

There was a small card on the front. He slipped open the envelope and pulled it out to read. On the front was a glittery pink heart entwined with another silver one. On the inside, she had penned:

_Dear Mark,_  
_May the next year be even better than the last. I know mine will be._  
_XXOO,_  
_Bridget_

He looked to her with a smile, but could feel the emotion closing his throat. He dared not speak. Instead he opened the bag, moved aside the tissue paper, and pulled out—

"It's so you have something to wear when you're here," she said. "You know, that isn't a suit."

In the bag were three items that had clearly been sold as a set: a lightweight robe of dark red cotton; a pair of pyjamas; and a set of men's house shoes. All three bore the colours and the logo of the English soccer team. He wondered what she had spent on this, and said immediately, "Bridget, you shouldn't have."

"I wasn't sure which team you supported, you know, within England," she hastened to explain, "so I figured that was a safe bet, but if you want we can take it back—"

"No, they're great," he said, holding up the robe. "I just mean—this must have—well, never mind."

"What?"

"I hope you didn't spend too much."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Do you really like them?"

"I _love_ them." He dropped the items back into the bag, looked at her intently. "I love _you_."

It was her startled reaction that made him realise he had never actually said the words out loud before. She went slightly pale, and he considered what he might say to backtrack himself into a place of comfort… but then she surprised him by leaping out of her seat and into his lap to embrace then kiss him.

"I love you too," she said as she shed happy tears, "probably more than I should, but I do."

He chuckled in relief, then kissed her again. "I feel exactly the same," he murmured, wiping the tears from her eyes. "And you… you're in the best possible position."

"For what?"

"For this." He slipped his arm under her knees and got to his feet, kissed her again as he carried her off to her room.

Once he'd told her he loved her, it seemed he could not stop, murmuring it into her ear between kisses, as he cherished her lovely body, as he moved to join with her. She proclaimed the same each step of the way, vehemently declaring herself as she reached climax.

They ended the perfect day in the same place in which it had begun.

…

As the days got shorter still, they found more of a rhythm in their life as a couple. Not only did he have the pyjama set at her place as well as his razor, but he brought a few shirts, trousers, socks and boxers in case he decided to stay over. Similarly she brought some spare clothes to his house, but in all honesty he liked it best staying with her.

To celebrate two months together, he insisted upon taking her out for an indulgent dinner at Le Pont de la Tour, as it was a Friday night and it felt as if he hadn't taken her out on the town in eons. She had really outdone herself for eveningwear: a little black satin dress that came to her knees, her hair swept up in a twist, fringe cascading down over her eyes, and the highest heels he thought he had ever seen her in. She looked so beautiful, so sexy, that he half-wished he could skip dinner altogether and take her straight to his house, where he had arranged flowers and candles all over the bedroom and around the large bathtub, and where a bottle of champagne was already chilling.

Unsurprisingly, dinner was top notch, and he had as good a time with her as he ever had. As she excused herself to use the ladies, he offered to pick up her wrap from the coat check.

"Mark Darcy."

He turned at the sound of his name, just as he was handed her shawl. It was Derek from his office.

"Not really a good look for you," said Derek with a wink, indicating what Mark was holding. "Just kidding. I saw that girl you were with."

"Bridget."

"Very cute, _very_ sexy young thing…" He gave a light conspiratorial punch to Mark's upper arm. "Good to see you're having a bit of fun before you get too serious about looking for a new wife. Sort of a palate cleanser after that disaster, eh?"

Mark was dumbstruck and did not respond right away. "Derek—"

He felt a hand on his upper arm, and turned to see Bridget standing there. "Ah, there's my wrap. Thanks, Mark." She looked directly at Derek. "I don't believe we've met."

"Bridget, this is Derek Cracroft-Amcotts. We work together in chambers." He saw her fight a smile at the somewhat unwieldy last name; she had not apparently heard the insult which he had not had the opportunity to refute, for which he was grateful. "Derek, this is Bridget Jones. My girlfriend."

"A pleasure," he said, then added with a wink, "Mark, best be getting this one home. Surely it's near to her bedtime."

Presumably Derek thought it amusing, but he saw Bridget's pleasant smile fade. He did not know what to say that did not sound equally condescending—after all, he had every intention of taking her home and to bed—but was rescued when Bridget spoke up.

"I'm very much looking forward to Mark putting me to bed."

He slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed it in solidarity, chuckling softly. Derek looked appropriately gobsmacked. "Goodbye, Derek. See you on Monday."

Derek, in Mark's opinion, looked very envious, particularly when Mark glanced back and saw he had been joined by his attractive but extremely unpleasant wife.

Bridget seemed a bit sullen during the walk back to the car. "Don't let that old arse bother you," he said, his arm about her shoulders.

"I suppose I shouldn't," she said.

"You definitely shouldn't, especially since I don't want to have to compete with him for your attention tonight."

That got her to chuckle. "No competition at all," she said, her spirits visibly lifting. He opened the passenger door for her. "Come on, Mark," she said. "Get me home. It's past my bedtime."

…

The autumnal weather passed into something decided more wintry. The two of them continued their occasional forays to museums and other galleries, since it was pretty embarrassing to have lived in London and not have taken advantage of such things. It was on one such outing in late November, to which they had decided to take the Underground despite the surprise snowfall, that Mark's past and present would collide, figuratively and literally.

"It's beautiful," said Bridget as they strolled on the path to the Serpentine Gallery, nestled in Hyde Park. "It's like a Christmas card, but all twinkly in the sunlight."

The glinting snow on the bare branches of the tree was incredibly lovely against the bright blue sky. She was saying something else, something he didn't hear fully until she ended the sentence with:

"—but you probably have no idea what I'm talking about."

"What?"

She pursed her lips. "I said, when I was a little girl we played in the snow, made pathetic little forts and had snowball wars and made snow angels."

"Why would I have no idea what you're talking about?"

She shrugged. "I would have thought they'd discourage that sort of thing at Eton."

"I didn't go there until I was thirteen," he said. "I had quite a normal childhood before that." She snorted a laugh. "What's so funny?"

"I can_not_ picture you in a little snowsuit terrorising your friends with snowballs."

In truth he hadn't really done any such thing, but he could not have her think he was that much of an oddity. "You'd be surprised."

"So if I ask your mother about your securing the stately grounds of Darcy Manor with snowballs," Bridget said playfully, "she'd back me up?"

In her smugness in knowing he was likely fibbing, she lifted her chin and strolled on ahead. This gave him the opportunity to fall back, scoop up some snow and pack it into a little ball. The sunlight warmed it up just enough to give it a little cohesion, so as it flew through the air in a neat arc, it held together nicely until struck her square in the bottom, sending shards of snow outward around it like a sort of halo.

When she turned around there was a split second that Mark was truly worried he might have taken it one step too far, but then she smirked devilishly. "If it's war you want," she said, "it's war you'll get."

As she bent to get a snowball, he dashed around her and to the fountain they'd been approaching, a smile on his face, his breath trailing him in the air. The sparse number of passers-by seemed amused but carried on their way. As soon as she stood upright she ran after him.

"If I fall…" she said, circling towards him. He moved in the opposite direction; she reversed course.

"I'll kiss it better," he called back.

"If I don't murder you with a snowball first," she said, laughing.

She was not, unfortunately, watching where she was going, and instead of lobbing her carefully shaped snowball, she ran into a woman walking past on the periphery of the fountain. Before stumbling off to the side and landing on her backside in the snowy grass, the snowball practically jumped up out of her hand and smacked the woman right in the face.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Bridget as she recovered herself, standing upright. "Are you all right—"

There was more that Bridget said, but Mark did not hear it. As he got a good look at the woman brushing slush off of her chin and cheeks, all he could hear was a whooshing in his ears. It was like a spectre from his past looming up to haunt him, black bobbed hair, long pristine white coat hanging from her shoulders and around her tall, thin, shapeless frame in an elegant drape, taupe calfskin gloves on her small hands, and now, water stains dotting the front of her pale silk blouse peeking out at the collar.

"Mark," came the cold voice that was worse than icy; the tone held an expected disdain, but even worse was the lilting amusement in that one word, his name.

"Mark?" Bridget's voice was like a beacon in the dark, bringing him back to the present. "Do you know…?"

Mark looked to Bridget at the same time as their interloper did. "Yes," he said quietly. "This is Tamiko." At Bridget's confused expression, he added, "My ex-wife."

Bridget's gaze moved to her snowball victim.

"Tamiko," he continued. "This is my girlfriend, Bridget."

He watched as her fine brows raised. "Girlfriend," she said condescendingly. "How sweet. Aren't you adorable?" The last question was directed to Bridget as if she were a puppy. She clearly did not know how to respond, and looked down.

"We were just going to see the Scott Burdick exhibit," said Mark, striving for civility and reaching out to take Bridget's gloved hand.

"You'll find it boring," Tamiko said. "But _she_ might like it." The insinuation was clear: Bridget didn't have the sense or experience to know any better.

"Burdick's a magnificent painter," said Mark. "And I don't much care for your definition of 'exciting'."

At that Tamiko visibly flinched a little, but recovered to make it look like she'd meant it in shooting a glare at Bridget. "So you've taken trolling nurseries for girlfriends, Mark? Someone easy to train, someone to stroke your… ego." He knew her tactic all too well: she couldn't hurt him any more than she already had, so she was taking aim at the next best thing while insulting him in the process.

"Very original, Tamiko; as if I haven't heard that insinuation before," he said calmly; he strove not to lose his temper with her, or at least not appear to, because then she would have won.

"Well, you know what they say. Where there's smoke, there's fire," Tamiko said, delivering a withering, imperious look in Bridget's direction again. "Clearly she's good for one thing only… if you're even able keep _up_ your end of the bargain, because God knows you never did with me."

Bridget laughed abruptly. "I hardly think that had anything to do with _him_," she said. "I can testify to the fact that there is no problem in that department—"

She stopped short at the look he gave her. He said, slipping his arm tenderly around her waist, "Don't lower yourself to her level."

Tamiko laughed mirthlessly. "That's rich considering who you're talking to. She'll never survive our kind, Mark. They'll eat her alive. And it's such a pity to see _you_ sink so low."

Bridget tightened her grip on his own waist. He saw her expression; he could tell she was upset, but most of all she was torn. He could tell she wanted to continue to speak her mind at this insult to his virility, amongst other things… but out of respect, he supposed, she did not. This was a battle he had to fight himself, and he realised there was no reason not to anymore. Just like that, the floodgates opened, and he said everything he wanted to say to her without restraint, everything he hadn't gotten to say when she'd devastated their marriage. He could only do this now because there was nothing left of anything he might have once felt for her.

"And who exactly do you think _you_ are?" Mark began. "_You_, a gold-digger and a whore, a role that you and no one else cast yourself into. As I understand it, not even Cleaver can tolerate you anymore, and that's saying a lot considering he'd take anything with a pulse to bed." He lowered his voice. "You are acting like some kind of vindictive, jealous ex-wife, like I am the one who did something wrong, that I have no right to be happy when I was the one so brutally hurt, when it was you who betrayed me so horribly with my best friend. Yes, Bridget's younger and a good deal more attractive than, well, _you_, but she's also kinder, more generous, more genuine, funnier, wittier and smarter than you ever were or could be… and is so unlike you I could not help but love her in a way I _never_ loved you… and it's killing you." He paused to consider his next words. "There might have been a time when I could have forgiven you. Lucky for me I found someone who has opened my eyes."

Tamiko seemed unruffled as she regarded him, but he knew his words had shaken her. He had never said an unkind word to her in his time with her, had always given her the benefit of the doubt; even when her affair with Daniel had been revealed, he had merely kept his cool demeanour.

"Love _is_ blind," she said at last in a catty tone. "It's funny how a good fuck now and then can pass for love these days."

"You would know," he spat back.

"Mark," said Bridget, her voice quiet. "I think we should leave."

It was just what he needed to rein in his building anger. He exhaled quickly. "You're right, darling." He raised and put his arm about Bridget's shoulders to pull her towards him (protectively, he realised), glaring at Tamiko again. "I'd say it's been nice to see you, but I would be lying… and you'd know all about that, too."

With that he swept her off towards the warmth of the gallery as he tried to control his trembling fury with every step he took. By the time he got her inside, he had mostly settled himself, telling himself Tamiko was not worth the energy. Bridget, however, had tears welling in her eyes. The rest of his anger dissipated in a moment as he cupped her face in his hands, then placed a tender kiss on her lips. "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head. "No, Mark," she said. "Don't apologise. You really tore her a new one. I was pretty proud of you there."

"I don't understand. You look like you're ready to cry."

She shook her head, though she couldn't possibly think he'd believe she wasn't. "It's okay. I'll be okay. I think I'd just like to go home."

He nodded. He didn't want to press her for details. "Okay."

"Maybe in a bit," she added, "when we're sure she's gone."

There was an empty bench, so he took her to sit upon it, holding his arm around her, holding her close into him.

"I'm not sorry, after all," she said softly after many minutes.

"For what?"

"For hitting her in the face with a snowball."

He chuckled.

"In fact, it's too bad there weren't some chunks of ice in it."

"Maybe some small rocks," added Mark. "Or dirt."

She laughed quietly. "She's awful," Bridget said. "She looks so beautiful, but she's not."

"She's not," he agreed. "She may have pleasing enough features, but the true woman inside can't be hidden for long."

"How long did she hide it from you?"

"Not long enough," he said. "But I was too trapped by what I thought I wanted and by inertia." He leaned in to kiss her. "I got better."

She held on to him tightly. "You know," she said with a decidedly brighter tone, "I think instead we should take a walk through this boring exhibit, after all. I think I might like to imagine one of the warrior men spearing her as if she were dinner."

The exhibit was anything but boring, and she seemed much cheered by the entrancing paintings. He was himself impressed by the painter's skill at capturing both the subject's likeness as well as essence. He gazed upon the African tribeswoman in a painting that was three quarters of a meter on each side, could feel her wisdom and serenity emanating from the canvas.

"You like this one?"

"Mm," he agreed.

"Me too. They're all sitting, but it's so active."

"I do like that," he said. Mostly, he was thinking about what a portrait of Bridget might look like by this painter's hand; it would look like her only more vivid and beautiful; it would be captivating; it would make him wonder what mischief she was getting into or was thinking about getting into. He smirked. "I like it very much indeed."

As they left the museum hand in hand, she said, "It just occurred to me who she reminds me of."

"Who?"

"Your ex-wife."

"No, I mean who does my ex-wife remind you of?"

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "She reminds me of Natasha."

He squeezed her hand, smiling and thinking it had been exactly Jeremy's observation. "Yes, well, I sort of ran to type." He looked to her. "Think I've been cured of that."

She smiled a little in return, and they walked the rest of the way to the station in a comfortable silence.

…

The next few days were incredibly busy, what with the start of preparation for the holidays and all that entailed (a gift purchase for Bridget at the forefront), court business winding down before the holiday season and one other unexpected hurdle to overcome: an energy efficiency inspection he'd decided to do turned up evidence that his furnace was not only incredibly wasteful (which explained why his house always seemed so cold) but possibly dangerous, as it was a model that had been included in a recall a few years ago. It was recommended that he turn off the furnace (and the gas) until it could be replaced, and with the cold temperatures that meant he could not actually stay in the house. Searches related to this dilemma were doubly unsuccessful; he was not able to locate a suitable replacement that could be delivered and installed before the end of the year, nor could he find a hotel suite (thanks to the impending holidays) that wasn't on the outskirts of London and therefore too far to commute every day.

"Well, durr," she'd said when he told her over the phone about the furnace and lack of lodgings. "You can stay with me."

He wasn't certain why it hadn't occurred to him; maybe it had, but maybe it had seemed a little presumptuous to have asked to stay. "Are you sure?"

"Mark, you're practically here every night anyway," she said, adding quickly, "not that that's a bad thing. Besides, it's not as if they're condemning your house. You can still go back there if you need to."

He realised he had no argument to offer, so he ordered the furnace and arranged for its delivery, to have the gas and furnace turned off, and for the housekeeper to pare down what she was doing (particularly with regards to grocery purchasing). He packed up some clothes and all of the perishable food in the refrigerator and brought it over to her place.

The sight of the milk, eggs, bread, luncheon meat and other goodies he bore brought a smile to her face and a quip to her tongue: "Already past the flowers and chocolates phase, are we?" She made some space in her bureau for his boxers and rolled her eyes appropriately at the commentary he made on her housekeeping, but it was all in good fun. There was a slightly different charge to the air when he climbed into bed beside her that night, as if it were the first night they were living together, that he might never have to leave at all.

The following night, he brought her tulips and Milk Tray.

He thought she was perhaps a little down, but he also thought he was seeing his own mood reflected in her, as well as her own stress about the holidays, and was not unduly worried. He didn't really think much of it at all until he woke with a start in the middle of the night early Sunday three weeks before Christmas to find he was alone in her bed. He called her name in a loud whisper, thinking she was probably in the loo. She didn't reply. He threw back the sheets, slipped on his house shoes and robe, and went out to find her.

The flat was dark except for the fairy lights in the kitchen and the moonlight coming in through the windows, reflected and magnified, it seemed, to unnatural brightness. She was standing in her own robe by the paned glass door leading out to the two-person-ledge-with-railing that served as a balcony, looking out into the night sky, holding a mug of something hot that sent curls of steam licking up into the air. She was leaning on the doorjamb, resting her temple against it too.

Mark padded closer. "Bridget," he whispered gently so not to startle her. He saw her lids lower as he spoke, as if she hadn't wanted to be caught. "Everything all right?"

She nodded. "Couldn't sleep. Having a hot toddy."

He wracked his brain to think what she might have made a hot toddy with; as far as he knew she had some white wine and some Irish cream. "Something I can help with?"

A shrug told him more than an outright denial could have.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong."

He saw a tear fall onto her cheek, which she brushed away quickly. When she spoke at last, her voice was almost unrecognisable. "I'm not your kind."

"What?"

"I'm not world-wise or sophisticated. I'm young. Your friends and colleagues will never see me as more than… your rebound plaything."

"That's not true," he said vehemently, feeling his head swirl with confusion and anger at anyone who'd ever made a comment like it, and for himself for saying he'd heard such commentary before.

"Mark, it is true," she said. "I'm inexperienced, fresh out of uni with no money to speak of; I'm not established as a career woman and I have no useful connections; I'm not well-versed in political news events, I'm not exactly socially graceful, and I feel like an insect whenever I'm around a woman who _would_ be more… your type." He instantly regretted the off-handed comment he'd muttered after seeing Tamiko. "And I feel like sooner or later the charm's going to wear off of me and you're going to want someone I don't think I can ever be, even if I _were_ older; someone polished and shiny with smooth edges. Eventually I won't even have youth going for me anymore."

He exhaled, not sure what to say. Never in a hundred lifetimes would he have thought she'd feel so insecure about his love for her when even his ex-wife had seen it; never did he imagine she was so full of self-doubt. He gently tightened his fingers on her shoulder in a reassuring manner, but didn't make her look at him. "The thing about polished and shiny-smooth things is sometimes they no longer resemble what they once were," he said softly, his pace slow and measured. "Sometimes polishing hones razor-sharp edges that hurt and cause pain and damage because they don't comfortably fit against anything else. All of those years of wear and weathering turn them cold, and absolutely nothing can penetrate that hard surface." He paused, watching her for a reaction, any reaction; she was absolutely still and unblinking. "I don't want that again. I want soft and warm; I want tender and caring; I want someone who can without effort fill all the places that are lonely and hollow, and I want someone for whom I can offer the same and know it means something. For all of this, I'm willing to risk the occasional scuff by a rough, unfinished edge."

He saw her start to shake with sobs before he heard them. Only then did he take the drink from her hands and pull her into his arms.

"I meant every word I said at the gallery." He stroked her back. "I never want you to change. If you turned into someone like Natasha or Tamiko because you thought that's what I wanted, I would never forgive myself." He kissed her on the head, her hair silky beneath his lips. "I love you, and I would still love you whether you were twenty-one or forty-one. I _will_ love you. Always."

She clung to him, crying relentlessly into the lapel of his robe. They stood there for many quiet minutes until her tears subsided under the ministrations of his caresses. She released him, got up onto her toes, breathed "I love you too" across his lips, then kissed him sweetly. "Come on," she said. "I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping now."

They climbed into bed together; he spooned up to her back, held her tight, rested his cheek on her hair. He listened carefully to the rhythm of her breathing, waited until he heard it even out to the shallow pattern of sleep. Only after that did he allow himself to drift off too.

…

Mark knew, intellectually, that the rough edges would irritate a bit, but losing his things to clutter—his attaché case under a stack of takeaway containers and carrier bags, his keys and wallet beneath a discarded jumper, his favourite tie amidst a jumble of lacy pants—was all becoming a bit wearing. It was a rare day when he had a day off and she did not, so while she was away he endeavoured to try to clean things up a bit for her.

After gathering up all of the papers, containers, cans, bottles, wine glasses and plates in the main area of the flat, and socks, pants, skirts, trousers and other smalls from the bedroom and the loo, he brought all the clothes to the washer and started cycling them through; between loads of laundry, he washed the dishes, returned any important-looking papers to her little writing desk (and set anything else like outdated newspapers or adverts aside for recycling), hoovered the floor (after taking a sidebar to organise the closet, hanging up some coats and jackets that had fallen), made a tidy pile of all the magazines he'd found and returned books to what appeared to be logical places on the bookshelves. By the time he was finished (breaking for lunch and as needed), he was achy and exhausted, but her flat had not looked so clean since she'd moved in.

He was just coming out of the shower—required, extra hot water—and was towelling off when he heard the thump of the front door, the sound of her footfalls on the steps up into the flat.

"What the…" he heard her say, her voice perplexed and somewhat alarmed.

He slipped into his robe and house shoes then went to greet her with a smile. He was expecting gratitude. He wasn't expecting annoyance.

"What happened?"

"Fairies came in and cleaned the place while I napped," he said.

"I'm serious," she said, setting down her handbag, sloughing off her coat and letting it drop to the ground behind her as she strode forward. "I knew where everything was. Now…"

"Now everything's clean."

She pursed her lips. "Now everything's organised in a way that's logical to you."

"There was nothing about the way things were before that could be remotely termed 'organised'," he replied. "There was no discernible method to your madness, and it was making me a little mental."

She stared at him. Only then did he see a smile reluctantly light upon the corner of her mouth. "You're mental, anyway." She went up to him and gave him a hug, getting the front of her top all water-spotted. She giggled. "I suppose if I need to find something I'll just ask you where you put it, since I'm sure you've memorised it all." With her arm around his waist, she shifted herself to look around the whole flat. "It does look really nice, Mark, and I do sincerely appreciate it."

"Guess we know who'll be doing all the tidying when we live together," he mused in a light tone.

She stopped moving and turned herself back to him. "'When'?"

"Oh," he said. "I guess I've only been thinking it, not saying it."

"Saying what?"

"Well," he began unsurely, "Living together. I mean, I want you to have your independence. But I also think it's impractical to live apart, both in terms of commuting and rent/mortgage. And then there's the matter of your appalling housekeeping."

The corner of her mouth twitched up. "Are you saying you want to move in with me for good? Because there's no room for your insane king-sized bed, anyway."

He laughed, pulling her close. "Oh, Lord, no."

"Oh, good," she said. "Your folded boxers are just this side of psychotic."

He chuckled again. "I'm saying you should move in with me."

It was her turn to laugh, but she pulled back with a furrowed brow when he did not continue laughing himself. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," he said.

"I don't really want to be a kept woman."

"I know, hence my hesitation in mentioning it."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and considered the options.

He added, "I promise I won't be offended if you say no."

She regarded him with great solemnity. "I'll think about it over dinner."

Dinner.

"Oh, hell," he said. "I forgot to put in the roast."

They ordered Thai takeaway and had it with wine in front of the telly, the hearth ablaze. She was much less talkative than usual, and had very few pithy things to say about what was airing. It was as he collected her carton from her that she switched off the television set with the remote then looked up to him.

"You have a housekeeper, right?"

He nodded.

"And… I could have my own room if I wanted?"

"Your own room?" he asked, slightly hurt.

"I mean," she said quickly at his doleful tone, "somewhere I could go if I needed time to myself, to put my computer in—"

He suppressed a laugh. "Does that computer of yours even still work?"

"Ha, ha," she said. "Maybe the room could be off limits to the housekeeper."

"Potential fire hazard, but… sure, okay," he said.

"Maybe…" she began. "Maybe I could pay you rent for that room. That way I won't be a kept woman."

"That sounds reasonable."

"But not until the spring," she said. "I made a promise to Jude."

He nodded, maintaining his usual cool but his heart was pounding. It sounded to him like she was agreeing.

"Mark," she said, seemingly reading his mind. "That is in fact a 'yes'."

He felt his face flush, but he smiled. "Good." He sat beside her, putting the cartons down again on the clean floor. "Of course, I may have to give the housekeeper a rise. Hazard pay and all."

She picked up one of the decorative pillows and tossed it at him. "Suppose that's why they're called 'throw pillows'," she said.

He picked it up and hurled it back at her, which led to much laughing, a little horseplay, and eventually a lot of kissing then snuggling on the sofa in front of the fire.

"It is nice," she murmured.

"This?" he asked sleepily. "Yes it is."

"Not _just_ this," she returned. "Being together in the evenings as the rule, not the exception."

"Mmm," he assented.

The fire did not have the satisfying pop and crackle of a wood fire, but it flickered in a very mesmerising way. Mark could feel slumber trying to overtake him. "I must admit," she continued, "it was lovely to come home to you today, and not just because you were fresh out of the shower." He roused enough to offer a laugh. "The mental image of you scurrying around like an old-fashioned housewife…"

She trailed off or he drifted to sleep; which of the two he did not know, because the next thing he knew the sunlight was peeking through the window and slowly filling the room. Bridget was not with him, but as he stirred he realised she was padding over from the kitchen with coffee. She sat beside him and smiled.

In that moment, in accepting the coffee mug from her, everything about his life felt complete. It was such a profound realisation that his expression must have been cause for some concern; the minuscule wrinkle in her brow asked him what the matter was, and the slight shake of his head and small curl of a smile told her nothing was wrong. In fact, quite the opposite. Her own smile broadened again, and she sipped from her cup, then nestled in closer to him. They said not a word as they drank. They did not need to.

He thought with some amusement that it was just a fortnight until the Turkey Curry Buffet again. There would be no need to persuade him to go this time, no reason why he would not want to. He was a different man than he was this same time last year, a happy man.

A healed man.

_The end._


End file.
